THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

ALUMNUS 
BOOK  FUND 


RECENTLY       PUBLISHED, 

In  2  vols.  18mo.,  Fourth  Edition, 

AFFECTING    SCENES;    being  Passages   from   th< 

Diary  of  a  late  Physician. 

CONTAINING 

Early  Struggles  of  the  Author — Cancer — The  Dentist  and  the  Co 
median — A  Scholar's  Deathbed — Preparing  for  the  House — Duellin; 
— Intriguing  and  Madness — The  Broken  Heart — Consumption — Th 
Spectral  Dog  ;  an  Illusion — The  Forger — A  "  Man  about  Town"- 
Death  at  the  Toilet— The  Turned  Head— The  Wife— The  Spectre 
smitten — The  Martyr  Philosopher — The  Statesman— A  slight  Colt 
— Rich  and  Poor — Grave  Doings — The  Ruined  Merchant — Mothe 
and  Son— The  Thunderstruck— The  Boxer— The  Magdalen— Th 
Baronet's  Bride. 


THE 


MERCHANT'S    CLERK, 


OTHER     TALES. 


BY    SAMUEL    WARREN,    LL.D., 

m 

AUTHOR    OF 
"  PASSAGES    FROM    THE    DIARY    OF   A   PHYSICIAN'." 


NEW- YORK: 
HARPER    &    BROTHERS,    CLIFF-ST. 

18  36. 


ALUMNUS 


VI 


/I 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


The  subscribers  have  great  pleasure  in  offering  to 
the  public  a  new  volume  of  tales  by  the  celebrated, 
although  until  recently  unknown  author  of  those  mas- 
terly productions,  the  "  Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a 
late  Physician."     From  his  long  silence  it  was  feared 
that   his   store  of  material  was  exhausted — that   he 
would  no  more  appear  to  charm  or  sadden  the  world 
of  readers  at  his  will.     The  advent  of  a  new  story 
with  that  well-known  phrase  at  its  beginning,  "  From 
the  Diary  of  a  late  Physician,"  in  a  recent  number  of 
Blackwood,  was  a  signal  for  eager  impatience  and  for 
great  delight — the  latter  marred  only  by  the  unwelcome 
discovery  that  the  tale  was  left  unfinished  in  that  num- 
ber, and  that  a  month  at  least  must  elapse  before  the 
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the  author  of  the  Diary,  Mr.  Warren,  to  be  his  own  per- 
formances ;  it  may  be  observed,  however,  that  such 
acknowledgment  is  scarcely  needful,  to  any  one  at  all 
conversant  with  the  style,  and  turn  of  thought  and  sen- 

1* 

^  02 


VI  ADVERTISEMENT. 

timent  which  characterize   the   previously  collected 
"  Passages." 

The  publishers  think  it  unnecessary  to  eulogize 
these  writings,  although  much  might  be  said  in  high 
commendation,  not  only  of  the  mental  power  disclosed 
in  them,  of  the  deep  interest  they  inspire,  and  of  the 
profound  knowledge  of  human  nature  which  without 
any  ostentation  they  evince,  but  also  of  the  noble  and 
excellent  moral  tone  by  which  they  are  distinguished, 
and  of  the  skill  with  which  the  deeply  interesting  nar- 
rative is  made  to  convey  the  valuable  lessons  of  ex- 
perience and  wisdom.  These  are  indeed  things  wor- 
thy of  praise;  but  the  public  voice  and  the  large  de- 
mand for  the  two  volumes  already  published,  have  long 
since  borne  ample  testimony  to  the  abilities  of  the  au- 
thor, and  the  merit  of  his  productions. 

H.  &  B, 

New-York,  Sept.  183§. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

The  Merchant's  Clerk 9 

The  Wagoner 133 

Monkvvynd :  a  Legendary  Fragment     .        .        .    209 

The  Bracelets 227 

Blucher;  or,  the  Adventures  of  a  Newfoundland 

Dog .259 


THE  MERCHANTS  CLERK. 


Yet  once  more,  oh  ye  laurels,  and  once  more, 

Ye  myrtles  brown,  with  ivy  never  sere. 

I  come  to  pluck  your  berries  harsh  and  crude  ; 

And,  with  forced  ringers  rude, 

Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing  year  : 

Bitter  constraint  and  sad  occasion  dear, 

Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due  ! 

Miltox. 

Look,  reader,  once  more  with  the  eye  and  heart  of 
sympathy,  at  a  melancholy  page  in  the  book  of  human 
life — a  sad  one  indeed,  and  almost  the  last  that  will 
be  opened  by  one  who  has  already  laid  several  before 
you,  and  is  about  to  take  his  departure. 

It  was  pouring  with  rain  one  Wednesday,  in  the 
month  of  March  18 — ,  about  twelve  o'clock,  and  had 
been  raining  violently  the  whole  morning.  Only  one 
patient  had  called  upon  me  up  to  the  hour  just  men- 
tioned, for  how  could  invalids  stir  out  in  such  weather"? 
The  wind  was  cold  and  bitter — the  aspect  of  things 
without,  in  short,  most  melancholy  and  cheerless. 
M  There  are  one  or  two  poor  souls,"  thought  I,  with  a 
sigh,  as  I  stepped  from  the  desk  at  which  I  had  been 
occupied  in  writing  for  more  than  an  hour,  and  stood 
looking  over  the  blinds  into  the  deserted  and  almost 
deluged  street — "  there  are  one  or  two  poor  souls  that 
would  certainly  have  been  here  this  morning,  accord- 
ing to  appointment,  but  for  this  unfriendly  weather. 
Their  cases  are  somewhat  critical — one  of  them  es* 

a  a 


10  THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK. 

pecially — and  yet  they  are  not  such  as  to  warrant  my 
apprehending  the  worst.     I  wish,  by-the-way,  I  had 
thought  of  asking  their  addresses !     Ah — for  the  fu- 
ture I  will  make  a  point  of  taking  down  the  residence 
of  such  as  I  may  suspect  to  be  in  very  humble  or  em- 
barrassed circumstances.     One  can  then,  if  necessary, 
call   upon  such  persons — on  such  a  day  as  this — at 
their   own  houses.      There's  that  poor  man,  for  in- 
stance, the  bricklayer — he  cannot  leave  his  work  ex- 
cept at  breakfast  time — I  wonder  how  his  poor  child 
comes  on !     Poor  fellow,  how  anxious  he  looked  yes- 
terday, when  he  asked  me  what  I  thought  of  his  child  ! 
And  his  wife  bed  ridden  !     Really,  I'd  make  a  point  of 
calling,  if  I  knew  where  he  lived  !     He  can't  afford 
a  coach — that's  out  of  the  question.     Well — it  can't  be 
helped,  however!"     With  this  exclamation,  half  ut- 
tered, I  looked  at  my  watch,  rung  the  bell,  and  ordered 
the  carriage  to  be  at  the  door  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
I  was  sealing  one  of  the  letters  I   had  been  writing, 
when  I  heard  a  knock  at  the  street  door,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  my  servant  showed  a  lady  into  the  room.    She 
was  apparently  about  four  or  five  and  twenty ;  neatly 
but  very  plainly  dressed ;  her  features,  despite  an  air 
of  languor,  as  if  from  recent  indisposition,  without  be- 
ing strictly  handsome,  had  a  pleasing  expression  of 
frankness  and  spirit,  and  her  address  was  easy  and 
elegant.     She  was,  however,  evidently  flurried.     She 
*'  hoped  she  should  not  keep  me  at  home — she  could 
easily  call  again."     I  begged  her  to  be  seated  ;  and  in 
a  quiet  tone,  at  the  same  time  proceeding  with  what  I 
was  engaged  upon,  that  she  might  have  a  moment's 
interval  in  which  to  recover  her  self-possession,  made 
some  observations  about  the  weather. 

"  It  is  still  raining  hard,  I  perceive,"  said  I ;  "  did 
you  come  on  foot  ?  Bless  me,  madam,  why  you  seem 
wet  through  !  Pray  come  nearer  the  fire  ;"  (stirring  it 
up  into  a  cheerful  blaze  ;)  "  shall  I  offer  you  a  glass  of 
wine,  or  wine  and  water  1     You  look  very  chilly." 

"  No,  thank  you,  sir ;  I  am  rather  wet  certainly,  but 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  ll 

I  am  accustomed  to  rain  ;  I  will,  however,  sit  closer 
to  the  fire,  if  you  please,  and  tell  you  in  a  few  words 
my  errand.  I  shall  not  detain  you  long,  sir,"  she 
continued,  in  a  tone  considerably  more  assured.  "  The 
fact  is,  1  have  received  a  letter  this  morning  from  a 
friend  of  mine  in  the  country,  a  young  lady  who  is  an 
invalid,  and  has  written  to  request  I  would  call  imme- 
diately upon  some  experienced  physician,  and  obtain, 
as  far  as  can  be,  his  real  opinion  upon  her  case,  for 
she  fancies,  poor  girl !  that  they  are  concealing  what 
is  really  the  matter  with  her !" 

"  Well !  she  must  have  stated  her  case  remarkably 
well,  ma'am,"  said  I,  with  a  smile, "  to  enable  me  to 
give  anything  like  a  reasonable  guess  at  her  state 
without  seeing  her  !" 

"  Oh,  but  1  may  be  able  to  answer  many  of  your 
questions,  sir ;  for  I  am  very  well  acquainted  with  her 
situation,  and  was  a  good  deal  with  her,  not  long  ago." 

"  Ah,  that's  well.  Then  will  you  be  so  kind,"  giv- 
ing a  monitory  glance  at  my  watch,  "  as  to  say  what 
you  know  of  her  case  ?  The  fact  is,  I've  ordered  the 
carriage  to  be  here  in  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour's 
time,  and  I  have  a  long  day's  work  before  me  !" 

"  She  is — let  me  see,  sir — I  should  sav  about  six 
years  older  than  myself;  that  is,  she  is  near  thirty,  or 
thereabouts.  I  should  not  think  she  was  ever  particu- 
larly strong.  She's  seen,  poor  thing,  a  good  deal  of 
trouble  lately."     She  sighed. 

M  Oh,  I  see,  I  understand  !  A  little  disappointment — 
there's  the  seat  of  the  mischief,  I  suppose  I"  I  inter- 
rupted, smiling,  and  placing  my  hand  over  my  heart. 
"  Isn't  this  really,  now,  the  whole  secret  ?" 

"  Why — the  fact  is — certainly,  I  believe — yes,  I 
1  may  say  that  love  has  had  a  good  deal  to  do  with  her 
present  illness,  for  it  is  really  illness !  She  has 
been — "  she  paused,  hesitated,  and,  as  I  fancied,  col- 
oured slightly — "  crossed  in  love — yes  !  She  was  to 
have  been — I  mean — that  is,  she  ought  to  have  been 
married  last  autumn,  but  for  this  sad  affair."    I  bowed, 


12  THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK. 

looking  again  at  my  watch,  and  she  went  on  more 
quickly  to  describe  her  friend  as  being  naturally  rather 
delicate — that  this  "  disappointment"  had  occasioned 
her  a  great  deal  of  annoyance  and  agitation — that  it 
had  left  her  now  in  a  very  low  nervous  way,  and,  in 
short,  her  friend  suspected  herself  to  be  falling  into  a 
decline.  That  about  two  months  ago  she  had  had  the 
the  misfortune  to  be  run  over  by  a  chaise,  the  pole  of 
which  struck  her  on  the  right  chest,  and  the  horses' 
hoofs  also  trampled  upon  her,  but  no  ribs  were  broken* 

"Ah,  this  is  the  most  serious  part  of  the  story, 
ma'am — this  looks  like  real  illness  !  Pray,  proceed, 
ma'am.  I  suppose  your  friend  after  this  complained 
of  much  pain  about  the  chest ;  is  it  so  1  Was  there 
any  spitting  of  blood  ?" 

"  Yes,  a  little — no — I  mean — let  me  see."  Here 
she  took  out  of  her  pocket  a  letter,  and  unfolding  it, 
cast  her  eyes  over  it  for  a  moment  or  two,  as  if  to  re- 
fresh her  memory  by  looking  at  her  friend's  statement. 

"  May  I  be  allowed,  ma'am,  to  look  at  the  letter  in 
which  your  friend  describes  her  case  ?"  1  inquired, 
holding  out  my  hand. 

"  There  are  some  private  matters  contained  in  it, 
sir,"  she  replied  quickly  ;  "  the  fact  is,  there  was  some 
blood-spitting  at  the  time,  which  I  believe  has  not  yet 
quite  ceased." 

"  And  does  she  complain  of  pain  in  the  chest  ?" 

"  Yes — particularly  in  the  right  side." 

"  Is  she  often  feverish  at  night  and  in  the  morning  ?" 

"  Yes — very — that  is,  her  hands  feel  very  hot,  and 
she  is  restless  and  irritable." 

"  Is  there  any  perspiration  ?" 

"  Occasionally  a  good  deal — during  the  night." 

"  Any  cough  ?" 

"  Yes,  at  times  very  troublesome,  she  says.'' 

"  Pray,  how  long  has  she  had  it  ?  I  mean,  had  she 
it  before  the  accident  you  spoke  of?" 

*'  I  first  noticed  it — let  me  see — ah,  about  a  year 
after  she*  was  married." 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  13 

t?  After  she  was  married  /"  I  echoed,  darting  a  keen 
glance  at  her.  She  coloured  violently,  and  stammered 
confusedly, 

"  No,  no,  sir ;  I  mean  about  a  year  after  the  time 
when  she  expected  to  be  married," 

There  was  something  not  a  little  curious  and  puz- 
zling in  all  this.  "  Can  you  tell  me,  ma'am,  what  sort 
of  a  cough  it  is  I"  I  inquired,  shifting  my  chair,  so  that  I 
might  obtain  a  more  distinct  view  of  her  features.  She 
perceived  what  I  was  about,  I  think  ;  for  she  seemed 
to  change  colour  a  little,  and  to  be  on  the  verge  of 
shedding  tears.  I  repeated  my  question.  She  said 
that  the  cough  was  at  first  very  slight ;  so  slight  that 
her  friend  had  thought  nothing  of  it,  but  at  length  it 
became  a  dry  and  painful  one.  She  began  to  turn  very 
pale.  A  suspicion  of  the  real  state  of  the  case  flashed 
across  my  mind. 

"  Now,  tell  me,  ma'am,  candidly — confess  !  Are 
not  you  speaking  of  yourself?     You  really  look  ill !" 

She  trembled,  but  assured  me  emphatically  that  I 
was  mistaken.  She  appeared  about  to  put  some  ques- 
tion to  me,  when  her  voice  failed  her,  and  her  eyes, 
wandering  to  the  window,  filled  with  tears. 

"  Forgive  me,  sir !  I  am  so  anxious  about  my 
friend," — she  sobbed — "  she  is  a  dear,  kind,  good — " 
Her  agitation  increased. 

"  Calm,  pray  calm  yourself,  ma'am  ;  do  not  distress 
yourself  unnecessarily  !  You  must  not  let  your  friendly 
sympathies  overcome  you  in  this  way,  or  you  will  be 
unable  to  serve  your  friend  as  you  wish — as  she  has 
desired !" 

I  handed  to  her  a  bottle  of  smelling  salts,  and  after 
pausing  for  a  few  moments,  her  agitation  subsided. 

"  Well,"  she  began  again,  tremulously,  "  what  do 
you  think  of  her  case,  sir  1  You  may  tell  me  candidly, 
sir," — she  was  evidently  making  violent  struggles  to 
conceal  her  emotions— "  for  I  assure  you  I  will  never 
make  an  improper  use  of  what  you  may  say — indeed  I 
Will  not !     What  do  vou  really  think  of  her  case  ?" 

2 


14  THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK. 

"  Why — if  all  that  you  have  said  be  correct,  I  own 
I  fear  it  is  a  bad  case — certainly  a  bad  one,"  1  replied, 
looking  at  her  scrutinizingly.  "  You  have  mentioned 
some  symptoms  that  are  very  unfavourable." 

"Do  you — think — her  case  hopeless,  sir?"  she  in- 
quired in  a  feeble  tone,  and  looking  at  me  with  sorrow- 
ful intensity. 

"  Why,  that  is  a  very  difficult  question  to  answer — 
in  her  absence.  One  ought  to  see  her — to  hear  her 
tell  her  own  story — to  ask  a  thousand  little  questions. 
I  suppose,  by-the-way,  that  she  is  under  the  care  of  a 
regular  professional  man  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  believe  so — no,  I  am  not  sure ;  she  has 
been,  I  believe." 

I  felt  satisfied  that  she  was  speaking  of  herself.  I 
paused,  scarce  knowing  what  to  say.  "  Are  her  cir- 
cumstances easy  ?  Could  she  go  to  a  warmer  climate 
in  the  spring  or  early  part  of  the  summer  1  I  really 
think  that  change  of  scene  would  do  her  greater  good 
than  anything  I  could  prescribe  for  her." 

She  sighed.  "  It  might  be  so  ;  but — I  know  it  could 
not  be  done.     Circumstances,  I  believe — " 

"  Is  she  living  with  her  family  1     Could  not  they — " 

"  Oh  no,  there's  no  hope  there,  sir !"  she  repLred, 
with  sudden  impetuosity.  "  No,  no  ;  they  would  see 
both  of  us  perish  before  they  would  lift  a  finger  to  save 
us,"  she  added  with  increasing  vehemence  of  tone  and 
manner.  "  So  now  it's  all  out — my  poor,  poor  hus- 
band !"  She  fell  into  violent  hysterics.  The  mystery 
was  now  dispelled — it  was  her  husband's  case  that 
she  had  been  all  the  while  inquiring  about.  I  saw  it 
all !  Poor  soul,  to  gain  my  candid,  my  real  opinion, 
she  had  devised  an  artifice  to  the  execution  of  which 
she  was  unequal ;  over  estimating  her  own  strength, 
or  rather  not  calculating  upon  the  severe  test  she 
would  have  to  encounter. 

Ringing  the  bell,  I  summoned  a  female  servant,  who, 
with  my  wife,  (she  had  heard  the  violent  cries  of  my 


THE    MERCHANTS    CLERK.  15 

patient,)  instantly  made  her  appearance,  and  paid  all 
necessary  attentions  to  the  mysterious  sufferer,  as 
surely  I  might  call  her.  The  letter  from  which,  in 
order  to  aid  her  little  artifice,  she  had  affected  to  read, 
had  fallen  upon  the  floor.  It  was  merely  a  blank  sheet 
of  paper,  folded  in  the  shape  of  a  letter,  and  directed, 

in  a  lady's  handwriting,  to  ';  Mrs.  Elliott,  No.  5,  

street."  This  I  put  into  my  pocketbook.  She  had 
also,  in  falling,  dropped  a  small  piece  of  paper,  evi- 
dently containing  my  intended  fee,  neatly  folded  up. 
This  I  slipped  into  the  reticule  which  lay  beside  her. 

From  what  scene  of  wretchedness  had  this  unhappy- 
creature  come  to  me  ? 

The  zealous  services  of  my  wife  and  her  maid  pres- 
ently restored  my  patient,  at  least  to  consciousness, 
and  her  first  look  was  one  of  gratitude  for  their  assist- 
ance. She  then  attempted,  but  in  vain,  to  speak,  and 
her  tears  flowed  fast.  £i  Indeed,  indeed,  sir,  I  am  no 
impostor  !  and  yet  I  own  I  have  deceived  you  !  but 
pity  me  !  Have  mercy  on  a  being  quite  forsaken  and 
broken  hearted  !  I  meant  to  pay  you,  sir,  all  the  while. 
I  only  wished  to  get  your  true  opinion  about  my  un- 
happy husband.  Oh  how  very,  very,  very,  wretched  I 
am  !  What  is  to  become  of  us  !  So — my  poor  hus- 
band ! — there's  no  hope  !  Oh  that  I  had  been  content 
writh  ignorance  of  your  fate  !"  She  sobbed  bitterly, 
and  my  worthy  little  wife  exhibited  so  much  firmness 
and  presence  of  mind,  as  she  stood  beside  her  suffering 
sister,  that  I  found  it  necessary  gently  to  remove  her 
from  the  room.  What  a  melancholy  picture  of  grief 
was  before  me  in  Mrs.  Elliott,  if  that  were  her  name. 
Her  expressive  features  were  flushed,  and  bedewed 
with  weeping  ;  her  eyes  swollen,  and  her  dark  hair, 
partially  dishevelled,  gave  a  wildness  to  her  counte- 
nance, which  added  to  the  effect  of  her  incoherent  ex- 
clamations. "  I  do — I  do  thank  you,  sir,  for  your  can- 
dour. I  feel  that  you  have  told  me  the  truth  !  But 
what  is  to  become  of  us  !     My  most  dreadful  fears  are 


16  THE    MERCHANT^    CLERK. 

confirmed !  But  I  ought  to  have  been  home  before 
this,  and  am  only  keeping  you — " 

"  Not  at  all,  ma'am — pray  don't — " 

"  But  my  husband,  sir,  is  ill — and  there  is  no  one  to 
keep  the  child  but  him.  I  ought  to  have  been  back 
long  ago  !"  She  rose  feebly  from  the  chair,  hastily 
readjusted  her  hair,  and  replaced  her  bonnet,  prepar- 
ing to  go.  She  seemed  to  miss  something,  and  looked 
about  the  floor,  obviously  embarrassed  at  not  discover- 
ing the  object  of  her  search. 

"  It  is  in  your  reticule,  ma'am,"  I  whispered  ;  "  and, 
unless  you  would  affront  and  wound  me,  there  let  it 
remain.  I  know  what  you  have  been  looking  for — 
hush  !  do  not  think  of  it  again.     My  carriage  is  at  the 

door ;  shall  I  take  vou  as  far  as street  ?     I  am 

driving  past  it." 

"  No,  sir,  I  thank  you  ;  but — not  for  the  world !  My 
husband  has  no  idea  that  I  have  been  here  ;  he  thinks 
I  have  been  only  to  the  druggist.  I  would  not  have 
him  know  of  this  visit  on  any  account.  He  would  in- 
stantly suspect  all."  She  grew  again  excited*  "  Oh 
what  a  wretch  I  am  !  How  long  must  I  play  the  hyp- 
ocrite !  I  must  look  happy,  and  say  that  I  have  hope 
when  I  am  despairing — and  he  dying  daily  before  my 
eyes  !  Oh  how  terrible  will  home  be  after  this  !  But 
how  long  have  I  suspected  all  this  !" 

I  succeeded,  at  length,  in  allaying  her  agitation,  im- 
ploring her  to  strive  to  regain  her  self-possession  be- 
fore reappearing  in  the  presence  of  her  husband.  She 
promised  to  contrive  some  excuse  for  summoning  me 
to  see  her  husband,  as  if  in  the  first  instance,  as  though 
it  were  the  first  time  I  had  seen  or  heard  of  either  of 
them,  and  assured  me  that  she  would  call  upon  me 
again  in  a  few  days'  time.  "  But  sir,"  she  whispered, 
hesitatingly,  as  I  accompanied  her  through  the  hall  to 
the  street  door,  "  I  am  really  afraid  we  cannot  afford 
to  trouble  you  often," 

"Madam,  you  will  greatly  grieve  and  offend  me  if 
you  ever  allude  to  this  again  before  I  mention  it  to 


THE    MERCHANT'S  CLERK.  17 

you.  Indeed  you  will,  ma'am,"  I  added  peremptorily 
but  kindly ;  and  reiterating  my  injunctions,  that  she 
should  let  me  soon  see  her,  or  hear  from  her  again,  I 
closed  the  door  upon  her,  satisfied  that  ere  long  would 
be  laid  before  me  another  dark  page  in  the  volume  of 
human  life. 

Having  been  summoned  to  visit  a  patient  somewhere 

in  the  neighbourhood  of street  that  evening,  and 

being  on  foot,  it  struck  me,  as  it  was  beginning  again 
to  rain  heavily,  that  if  I  were  to  step  into  some  one  of 
the  little  shops  close  by,  I  might  be  sheltered  a  while 
from  the  rain,  and  also  possibly  gain  some  information 
as  to  the  character  and  circumstances  of  my  morning 
visiter.  I  pitched  upon  a  small  shop  that  was  "li- 
censed" to  sell  everything,  but  especially  groceries. 
The  proprietor  wras  a  little  lame  old  man,  who  was 
busy,  as  I  entered,  making  up  small  packets  of  snuff 
and  tobacco.  He  allowed  the  plea  of  the  rain,  and 
permitted  me  to  sit  down  on  the  bench  near  the  win- 
dow. A  couple  of  candles  shed  their  dull  light  over 
the  miscellaneous  articles  of  merchandise  with  which 
the  shop  was  stuffed.  He  looked  like  an  old  rat  in  his 
hoard  !  He  was  civil  and  communicative,  and  I  was 
not  long  in  gaining  the  information  I  desired.  He 
knew  the  Elliotts  ;  they  lived  at  number  five,  up  two 
pairs  of  stairs — but  had  not  been  there  above  three  or 
four  months.  He  thought  ?\Ir.  Elliott  was  "  ailing  :" 
and  for  the  matter  of  that,  his  wife  didn't  look  the 
strongest  woman  in  the  world.  "  And  pray  what  bu- 
siness or  calling  is  he  ?"  The  old  man  put  his  spec- 
tacles back  upon  his  head,  and  after  musing  a  moment, 
replied,  "  Why,  now,  I  can't  take  upon  me  to  say  pre- 
cisely like — but  I  think  he's  something  in  the  city,  in 
the  mercantile  way — at  least  I've  got  it  into  my  head 
that  he  has  been  such  ;  but  he  also  teaches  music,  and  I 
know  she  sometimes  takes  in  needlework." 

"  Needlework  !  does  she  indeed?"  I  echoed,  taking 
her  letter  from  my  pocketbook,  and  looking  at  the 
beautiful,  the  fashionable  hand  in  which  the  direction 


18  THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK. 

was  written,  and  which,  I  felt  confident,  was  her  own. 
*<  Ah ! — then  I  suppose  they're  not  over  well  to  do  in 
the  world?" 

"  Why — you  an't  a  going  to  do  anything  to  them, 
sir,  are  you  ?     May  I  ask  if  you're  a  lawyer,  sir  ?" 

"  No,  indeed,  I  am  not,"  said  I,  with  a  smile — "  nor 
is  this  a  writ  !  It's  only  the  direction  of  a  letter,  I  as- 
sure you ;  I  feel  a  little  interested  about  these  people 
— at  the  same  time,  I  don't  know  much  about  them,  as 
you  may  perceive.  Were  not  you  saying  that  you 
thought  them  in  difficulties  1" 

"  Why,"  he  replied,  somewhat  reassured,  "  maybe 
you're  not  far  from  the  mark  in  that  either.  They 
deal  here — and  they  pay  me  for  what  they  have — but 
their  custom  an't  very  heavy  !  'Deed  they  has  uncom- 
mon little  in  the  grocery  way,  but  pays  reg'lar ;  and 
that's  better  than  them  that  has  a  good  deal,  and  yet 
doesn't  pay  at  all — an't  it,  sir  1"  I  assented.  "  They 
used,  when  they  first  came  here,  to  have  six-and-six- 
penny  tea  and  lump  sugar,  but  this  week  or  two  back 
they've  had  only  five-and-sixpenny  tea  and  worst  sugar 
— but  my  five-and-sixpenny  tea  is  an  uncommon  good 
article,  and  as  good  as  many  people's  six-shilling  tea  ! 
— only  smell  it  sir  !"  And  whisking  himself  round,  he 
briskly  dislodged  a  japanned  canister,  and  whipping  ofF 
the  lid,  put  a  handful  of  the  contents  into  it.  The 
conclusion  I  arrived  at  was  not  a  very  favourable  one  ; 
the  stuff  he  handed  me  seemed  an  abominable  com- 
pound of  raisin  stalks  and  sloe  leaves.  "  They're  un- 
common economical,  sir,"  he  continued,  putting  back 
again  his  precious  commodity,  "  for  they  makes  two 
or  three  ounces  of  this  do  for  a  week — unless  they 
goes  elsewhere,  which  I  don't  think  they  do,  by-the- 
way  :  and  I'm  sure  they  oughtn't ;  for,  though  I  say  it 
as  shouldn't,  they  might  go  farther  and  fare  worse, 
and  without  going  a  mile  from  here  either — hem  !  By- 
the-way,  Mrs.  Elliott  was  in  here  not  an  hour  ago,  for 
a  moment,  asking  for  some  sago,  because  she  said  Mr. 
Elliott  had  taken  a  fancy  to  have  some  sago  milk  for 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  19 

his  supper  to-night.  It  was  very  unlucky,  I  hadn't  half 
a  handful  left  3  So  she  was  obliged  to  go  to  the  drug- 
gist at  the  other  end  of  the  street.  Poor  thing,  she 
looked  so  vexed ;  for  she  has  quite  a  confidence,  like, 
in  what  she  gets  here  !" 

"True,  very  likely!  You  said,  by-the-way,  you 
thought  he  taught  music — what  kind  of  music  ?" 

"  Why,  sir,  he's  rather  a  good  hand  at  the  flute,  his 
landlady  says.  So  he  comes  in  to  me  about  a  month 
since,  and  he  says  to  me,  '  Bennet,'  says  he,  '  may  I 
direct  letters  for  me  to  be  left  at  your  shop  ? — I'm  going 
to  put  an  advertisement  in  the  newspaper.'  '  That,' 
says  I,  '  depends  on  what  it's  about — what  are  you  ad- 
vertising for?'  (not  meaning  to  be  impudent;)  and  he 
says,  says  he,  'Why,  I've  taken  it  into  my  head,  Ben- 
net,  to  teach  the  flute,  and  I'm  a  going  to  try  to  get 
some  one  to  learn  it  to.'  So  he  put  the  advertisement 
in — but  he  didn't  get  more  than  one  letter,  and  that 
brought  him  a  young  lad — but  he  didn't  stay  long. 
'Twas  a  beautiful  black  flute, sir,  with  silver  on  it; 
for  Mrs.  Hooper,  his  landlady — she's  an  old  friend  of 
my  mistress,  sir — showed  it  to  us  one  Sunday,  when 
we  took  a  cup  of  tea  with  her,  and  the  Elliotts  was 
gone  out  for  a  walk.  I  don't  think  he  can  teach  it  now 
sir,"  he  continued,  dropping  his  voice  ;  "  for,  between 
you  and  I,  old  Browning  the  pawnbroker,  a  little  way  up 
on  the  left-hand  side,  has  a  flute  in  his  window  that's 
the  very  image  of  what  Mrs.  Hooper  showed  us  that 
night  I  was  speaking  of.  You  understand  me,  sir  ? 
Pawned— or  sold — I'll  answer  for  it — ahem!" 

"  Ah,  very  probable — yes,  very  likely !"  I  replied, 
sighing — hoping  my  gossiping  host  would  go  on. 

"  And  between  you  and  I,  sir,"  he  resumed,  "  it 
wasn't  a  bad  thing  for  him  to  get  rid  of  it,  either  ;  for 
Mrs.  Hooper  told  us  that  Mr.  Elliott  wasn't  strong  like 
to  play  on  it ;  and  she  used  to  hear  Mrs.  Elliott — (she 
is  an  uncommon  agreeable  young  woman,  sir,  to  look 
at,  and  looks  like  one  that  has  been  better  off:)  I  was 
a  saying,  however,  that  Mrs.  Hooper  used  now  and 


SO  THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK. 

then  to  hear  Mrs.  Elliott  cry  a  good  deal  about  his 
playing  on  the  flute,  and  'spostulate  to  him  on  the  ac- 
count of  it,  and  say  *  You  know  it  isn't  a  good  thing 
for  you,  dear.'  Nor  was  it,  sir — the  doctors  would 
say  !" 

"  Poor  fellow  !"  I  exclaimed,  with  a  sigh,  not  mean- 
ing to  interrupt  my  companion — "  of  all  things  on  earth 
— the  flute!" 

"  Ah  !"  replied  the  worthy  grocer,  "  things  are  in  a 
bad  way  when  they  come  to  that  pass — arn't  they  ! 
But  Lord,  sir  !"  dropping  his  voice,  and  giving  a  hur- 
ried glance  towards  a  door,  opening,  I  suppose,  into 
his  sitting  room — "  there's  nothing  partic'lar  in  that, 
after  all.  My  mistress  and  I,  even,  have  done  such 
things  before  now,  at  a  push,  when  we've  been  hard 
driven  !     You  know,  sir,  poverty's  no  sin — is  it?" 

"  God  forbid,  indeed,  my  worthy  friend  !"  I  replied, 
as  a  customer  entered,  to  purchase  a  modicum  of 
cheese  or  bacon  ;  and  thanking  Mr.  Bennet  for  his 
civility  in  affording  me  a>  shelter  so  long,  I  quitted  his 
shop.  The  rain  continued,  and,  as  is  usually  the  case, 
no  hackney  coach  made  its  appearance  till  I  was  nearly 
wet  through.  My  interest  in  poor  Mrs.  Elliott  and 
her  husband  was  greatly  increased  by  what  I  had 
heard  from  the  gossiping  grocer.  How  distinctly, 
though  perhaps  unconsciously,  had  he  sketched  the 
downward  progress  of  respectable  poverty !  I  should 
await  the  next  visit  of  Mrs.  Elliott  with  some  eager- 
ness and  anxiety.  Nearly  a  week,  however,  elapsed 
before  I  again  heard  of  Mrs.  Elliott,  who  called  at  my 
house  one  morning  when  I  had  been  summoned  to  pay 
an  early  visit  to  a  patient  in  the  country.  After  having 
waited  nearly  an  hour  for  me,  she  was  obliged  to  leave, 
after  writing  the  following  lines  on  the  back  of  an  old 
letter : — 

"  Mrs.  Elliott  begs  to  present  her  respects  to  Doctor 

,  and  to  inform  him,  that  if  quite  convenient  to 

him,  she  would  feel  favoured  by  his  calling  on  Mr. 
Elliott  any  time  to-day  or  to-morrow.     She  begs  to 


THE    MERCHANTS    CLERK.  %     21 

remind  him  of  his  promise  not  to  let  Mr.  Elliott  sup- 
pose that  Mrs.  Elliott  has  told  him  anything  about 
Mr.  Elliott,  except  generally  that  he  is  poorly,     The 

address  is  No.  5, street,  near square." 

At  three  o'clock  that  afternoon,  I  was  at  their  lodg- 

ino-  in street.     No.  5  was  a  small  decent  draper's 

shop  ;    and    a  young  woman   sitting  at  work  behind 
the  counter  referred  me,  on  inquiring  for  Mr.  Elliott, 
to  the  private  door,  which  she  said  I  could  easily  push 
open  ;  that  the  Elliott's  lived  on  the  second  floor,  but 
she  thought  that  Mrs.  Elliott  had  just  gone  out.     Fol- 
lowing her  directions,  I  soon  found  myself  ascending 
the  narrow  staircase.      On   approaching  the  second 
floor,  the  door  of  the  apartment  I  took  to  be  Mr.  Elliott's 
was  standing  nearly  wide  open ;  and  the  scene  which 
presented  itself  I  paused  for  a  few  moments  to  contem- 
plate.    Almost  fronting  the  door,  at  a  table  on  which 
were  several  huge   legers  and  account  books,  sat  a 
young  man  apparently  about  thirty,  who  seemed  to  have 
just  dropped  asleep  over  a  wearisome  task.      His  left 
hand  supported  his  head,  and  in  his  right  was  a  pen 
which  he  seemed  to  have  fallen  asleep  almost  in  the 
act  of  using.     Propped  up,  on  the  table,  between  two 
huoe  books,  a  little  towards  his  left-hand  side,  sat  a 
child,  seemingly  a  little  boy,  and  a  very  pretty  one,  so 
engrossed  with  some  plaything  or  another  as  not  to 
perceive  my  approach.     \felt\h2X  this  was  Mr.  Elliott, 
and  stopped  for  a  few  seconds  to  observe  him.     His 
countenance  was   manly,  and  had  plainly  been  once 
very  handsome.     It  was  now  considerably  emaciated, 
overspread  with  a  sallow  hue,  and  wore  an  expression 
of  mingled  pain  and  exhaustion.     The  thin  white  hand 
holding  the  pen,  also  bespoke  the  invalid.     His  hair 
was  rather  darker  than  his  wife's,  and  being  combed 
aside,  left  exposed  to  view  an  ample  well-formed  fore- 
head.    In  short,  he  seemed  a  very  interesting  person. 
He  was  dressed  in  black,  his  coat  being  buttoned  evi- 
dently for  warmth's  sake  ;  for  though  it  was  March, 
and  the  weather  very  bleak  and  bitter,  there  was  scarce 


S2  THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK. 

any  appearance  of  fire  in  about  the  smallest  grate  I 
ever  saw.  The  room  was  small,  but  very  clean  and 
comfortable,  though  not  overstocked  with  furniture — 
what  there  was  being  of  the  most  ordinary  kind.  A 
little  noise  I  made  attracted,  at  length,  the  child's  at- 
tention. It  turned  round,  started,  on  seeing  a  stranger, 
and  disturbed  its  father,  whose  eyes  looked  suddenly 
but  heavily  at  his  child,  and  then  at  my  approaching 
figure. 

"  Pray  walk  in,"  said  he,  with  a  kind  of  mechanical 
civility,  but  evidently  not  completely  roused  from  sleep. 
•i  I — I — am  very  sorry — the  accounts  are  not  yet  bal- 
anced— very  sorry — been  at  them  almost  the  whole  day." 
He  suddenly  paused,  and  recollected  himself.  He  had, 
it  seemed,  mistaken  me,  at  the  moment,  for  some  one 
whom  he  had  expected. 

"  Dr. ,"  said  I,  bowing,  and  advancing. 

M  Oh  !  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir ;  pray  walk  in,  and 
take  a  seat."  I  did  so.  "  I  believe  Mrs.  Elliott  called 
upon  you  this  morning,  sir?  I  am  sorry  she  has  just 
stepped  out,  but  she  will  return  soon.  She  will  be 
very  sorry  she  was  not  at  home  when  you  called." 

"  I  should  have  been  happy  to  see  Mrs.  Elliott,  but 
I  understood  from  a  few  lines  she  left  at  my  house  that 
this  visit  was  to  be  paid  to  yourself — is  it  not  so  ?  Can 
I  be  of  any  assistance  ?" 

*'  Certainly  !  I  feel  far  from  well,  sir.  I  have  been 
in  but  middling  health  for  some  time,  but  my  wife  thinks 
me,  I  am  sure,  much  worse  than  I  really  am,  and  frets 
herself  a  good  deal  about  me." 

I  proceeded  to  inquire  fully  into  his  case ;  and  he 
showed  very  great  intelligence  and  readiness  in  an- 
swering all  my  questions.  He  had  detected  in  himself, 
some  years  ago,  symptoms  of  a  liver  complaint,  which 
a  life  of  much  confinement  and  anxiety  had  since  con- 
tributed to  aggravate.  He  mentioned  the  accident 
alluded  to  by  Mrs.  Elliott ;  and  when  he  had  concluded 
a  singularly  terse  and  distinct  statement  of  his  case,  I 
had  formed  a  pretty  decisive  opinion  upon  it.  1  thought 


THE    MERCHANT^    CLERK.  23 

there  was  a  strong  tendency  to  hepatic  phthisis,  but 
that  it  might,  with  proper  care,  be  arrested,  if  not  even 
overcome.     I  expressed  myself  in  very  cautious  terms. 

"  Do  you  really,  candidly  think,  sir,  that  I  have  a 
reasonable  chance  of  recovering  my  health  V1  he  in- 
quired, with  a  sigh,  at  the  same  time  folding  in  his  arms 
his  little  boy,  whose  concerned  features,  fixed  in  silence, 
now  upon  his  father,  and  then  upon  me,  as  each  of  us 
spoke,  almost  led  me  to  think  that  he  appreciated  the 
grave  import  of  our  conversation. 

"  Yes,  I  certainly  think  it  probable — very  probable — 
that  you  would  recover,  provided,  as  I  said  before,  you 
use  the  means  I  pointed  out." 

"And  the  chief  of  those  means  are — relaxation  and 
country  air  V 

u  Certainly." 

"  You  consider  them  essential  ?"  he  inquired,  de- 
spondingly. 

"  Undoubtedly.  Repose,  both  bodily  and  mental, 
change  of  scene,  fresh  air,  and  some  medical  treat- 
ment." 

He  listened  in  silence,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor, 
while  an  expression  of  profound  melancholy  overspread 
his  countenance.  He  seemed  absorbed  in  a  painful 
revery.  I  fancied  that  I  could  not  mistake  the  subject 
of  his  thoughts  ;  and  ventured  to  interrupt  them,  by 
saying  in  a  low  tone,  "  It  would  not  be  very  expen- 
sive, Mr.  Elliott,  after  all." 

"  Ah,  sir — that  is  what  I  am  thinking  about,"  he  re- 
plied, with  a  deep  sigh  ;  and  he  relapsed  into  his  former 
troubled  silence. 

"  Suppose — suppose,  sir,  I  were  able  to  go  into  the 
country  and  rest  a  little,  a  twelvemonth  hence,  and  in 
the  mean  time  attend  as  much  as  possible  to  my  health, 
is  it  probable  that  it  would  not  then  be  too  late  V* 

*'  Oh,  come,  Mr.  Elliott,  let  us  prefer  the  sunshine  to 
the  cloud,"  said  I,  with  a  cheerful  air,  hearing  a  quick  step 
advancing  to  the  door,  which  was  opened,  as  I  expected, 
by  Mrs.  Elliott,  who  entered  breathless  with  haste. 


24  the  merchant's  clerk. 

"  How  do  you  do,  ma'am — Mrs.  Elliott,  I  presume  !M 
said  I,  wishing  to  put  her  on  her  guard,  and  prevent  her 
appearing  to  have  seen  me  before. 

"  Yes,  sir — Mrs.  Elliott,"  §aid  she,  catching  the  hint, 
and  then  turning  quickly  to  her  husband,  "How  are 
you,  love  ?    I  hope  Henry  has  been  good  with  you  !" 

"  Very — he's  been  a  very  good  little  boy,"  replied 
Elliott,  surrendering  him  to  Mrs.  Elliott,  whom  he  was 
struggling  to  reach. 

•*  But  how  are  you,  dear  ?"  repeated  his  wife,  anx- 
iously. 

"  Pretty  well,"  he  replied,  adding,  with  a  faint  smile, 
at  the  same  time  pushing  his  foot  against  mine,  under 

the  table,  "  As  you  would  have  Dr. ,  he  is  here  ; 

but  we  can't  make  out  why  you  thought  fit  to  summon 
him  in  such  haste." 

"  A  very  little  suffices  to  alarm  a  lady,"  said  I,  with 
a  smile.  "  I  was  sorry,  Mrs.  Elliott,  that  you  had  to 
wait  so  long  for  me  this  morning — I  hope  it  did  not 
inconvenience  you."  I  began  to  think  how  I  should 
manage  to  decline  the  fee  I  perceived  they  were  pre- 
paring to  give  me,  for  I  was  obliged  to  leave,  and  drew 
on  my  gloves.  "  We've  had  a  long  tete-a-tete,  Mrs. 
Elliott,  in  your  absence.  I  must  commit  him  to  your 
.  gentle  care  ;  you  will  prove  the  better  physician.  He 
must  submit  to  you  in  everything  ;  you  must  not  allow 
him  to  exert  himself  too  much  over  matters  like  these," 
pointing  to  the  huge  folios  lying  upon  the  table;  "he 
must  keep  regular  hours,  and  if  all  of  you  could  go 
to  a  lodging  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  the  fresli 
air  would  do  you  a  world  of  good.  You  must  under- 
take the  case,  ma'am — you  must  really  pledge  yourself 
to  this."  The  poor  couple  exchanged  hurried  glances, 
in  silence.  He  attempted  a  smile.  '*  What  a  sweet 
little  fellow  is  this,"  said  I,  taking  their  little  child  into 
my  arms — a  miracle  of  neatness  and  cleanliness — and 
affecting  to  be  eagerly  engaged  with  him.  He  came 
tome  readily,  and  forthwith  began  an  incomprehensible 
address   to    me  about  "  da-da" — "  pa-pa" — u  ma-ma," 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  25 

and  other  similarly  mysterious  terms,  which  I  was 
obliged  to  cut  short  by  promising  to  come  and  talk 
again  with  him  in  a  day  or  two.  "  Good  day,  Master 
Elliott !"  said  I,  giving  him  back  to  his  father,  who  at 
the  same  time  slipped  a  guinea  in  my  hand.  I  took  it 
easily.  "  Come,  sirrah,"  said  I,  addressing  the  child, 
"  will  you  be  my  banker  !"  shutting  his  little  fingers  on 
the  guinea.        # 

"  Pardon  me — excuse  me,  doctor,"  interrupted  Mr. 
Elliott,  blushing  scarlet,  "  this  must  not  be.  I  really 
cannot — " 

"  Ah  !  may  I  not  employ  what  banker  I  like  ?  Well 
— I'll  hear  what  you  have  to  say  about  it  when  we 
meet  again.  Farewell  for  a  day  or  two."  And  with 
these  words,  bowing  hastily  to  Mrs.  Elliott,  who  looked 
at  me  through  her  tear-rilled  eyes  unutterable  things,  I 
hurried  down  stairs.  It  may  seem  sufficiently  absurd 
to  dwell  so  long  upon  the  insignificant  circumstance  of 
declining  a  fee  ;  a  thing  done  by  my  brethren  daily — 
often  as  a  matter  of  course  ;  but  it  is  a  matter  that  has 
often  occasioned  me  no  inconsiderable  embarrassment. 
'Tis  really  often  a  difficult  thing  to  refuse  a  fee  prof- 
fered by  those  one  knows  to  be  unable  to  afford  it,  so 
as  not  to  make  them  uneasy  under  the  sense  of  an 
obligation — to  wound  delicacy,  or  offend  an  honourable 
pride.  I  had,  only  a  few  days  before,  by-the-way, 
almost  asked  for  my  guinea  from  a  gentleman  who  is 
worth  many  thousands  a  year,  and  who  dropped  the 
fee  into  my  hand  as  though  it  were  a  drop  of  his  heart's 
blood. 

I  had  felt  much  gratified  with  the  appearance  and 
manners  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Elliott,  and  disposed  to  cul- 
tivate their  acquaintance.  Both  were  too  evidently 
oppressed  with  melancholy,  which  was  not,  however, 
sufficient  to  prevent  my  observing  the  simplicity  and 
manliness  of  the  husband,  the  fascinating  frankness  of 
the  wife.  How.  her  eyes  devoured  him  with  fond 
anxiety  !  Often  while  conversing  with  them,  a  recol- 
lection of  some  of  the  touching  little  details  commu- 
b  3 


26  THE    MERCHANT  S    CLEB.K. 

nicated  by  their  garrulous  grocer  brought  the  tears  for 
an  instant  to  my  eyes.  Possibly  poor  Mrs.  Elliott  had 
been  absent,  either  seeking  employment  for  her  needle, 
or  taking  home  what  she  had  been  engaged  upon — both 
of  them  thus  labouring  to  support  themselves  by  means 
to  which  she,  at  least,  seemed  utterly  unaccustomed,  as 
far  as  one  could  judge  from  her  demeanour  and  con- 
versation. Had  they  pressed  me  much  longer  about 
accepting  my  fee,  I  am  sure  I  should  have  acted  fool- 
ishly ;  for  when  I  held  their  guinea  in  my  hand,  the 
thought  of  their  small  weekly  allowance  of  an  ounce 
or  two  of  tea — their  brown  sugar — his  pawned  flute — 
almost  determined  me  to  defy  all  delicacy,  and  return 
them  their  guinea  doubled.  I  could  enter  into  every 
feeling,  I  thought,  which  agitated  their  hearts,  and 
appreciate  the  despondency,  the  hopelessness  with 
which  they  listened  to  my  mention  of  the  indispensable 
necessity  of  change  of  scene  and  repose.  Probably, 
while  I  was  returning  home,  they  were  mingling  bitter 
tears  as  they  owned  to  one  another  the  impossibility  of 
adopting  my  suggestions  ;  he  feeling,  and  she  fearing, 
neither,  however,  daring  to  express  it,  that  his  days 
were  numbered — that  he  must  toil  to  the  last  for  a 
scanty  livelihood — and  even  then  leave  his  wife  and 
child,  it  seemed  but  too  probable,  destitute — that,  in  the 
sorrowful  language  of  Burns, 

"  Still  caring,  despairing, 
Must  be  his  bitter  doom  ; 
His  woes  here;  shall  close  ne'er 
But  with  the  closing  tomb."* 

I  felt  sure  that  there  was  some  secret  and  grievous 
source  of  misery  in  the  background,  and  often  thought  of 
the  expression  she  had  frantically  uttered  when  at  my 
house.  Had  either  of  them  married  against  the  wishes 
of  a  proud  and  unrelenting  family  ?  Little  did  I  think 
that  I  had,  on  that  very  day  which  first  brought  me  ac- 
quainted with  Mrs.  Elliott,  paid  a  professional  visit  to 

*  Despondency y  an  Ode. 


THE    MERCHANT  S    CLERK.  27 

one  fearfully  implicated  in  the  infliction  of  their  present 
sufferings!     But  I  anticipate. 

I  need  not  particularize  the  steps*  by  which  I  became 
at  length  familiarly  acquainted  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  El- 
liott.    I  found  them  for  a  long  while  extremely  reserved 
on  the  subject  of  their  circumstances,  except  as  far  as 
an  acknowledgment  that  their  pecuniary  resources  were 
somewhat  precarious.  5  He  was,  or  rather,  it  seemed, 
had  been,  a  clerk  in  a  merchant's  counting  house ;  but 
ill  health  obliged  him  at  length  to  quit  his  situation, 
and  seek  for  such  occasional  employment  as  would 
admit  of  being  attended  to  at  his  own  lodging.     His 
labours  in  this  way  were,  I  perceived,  notwithstanding 
my  injunctions  and  his  promises,  of  the  most  intense 
and  unremitting,  and,  I  feared,  ill-requited  description. 
But  with  what  heart  could  I  continue  my  remonstrances, 
when  I  felt  convinced  that  thus  he  must  toil  or  starve? 
She  also  was  forced  to  contribute  her  efforts  toward 
their  support,  as  I  often  saw  her  eagerly  and  rapidly 
engaged  upon  dresses  and  other  articles  too  splendid  to 
be  for  her  own  use.     I  could  not  help  one  day  in  the 
fulness  of  my  heart,  seeing  her  thus  engaged,  telling 
her  that  I  had  many  a  time  since  my  marriage  seen  my 
wife  similarly  engaged.     She  looked  at  me  with  sur- 
prise for  a  few  moments,  and  burst  into  tears.     She 
forced  off  her  rising  emotions  ;  but  she  was  from  that 
moment  aware  that  I  fully  saw  and  appreciated  her 
situation.     It  was  on  a  somewhat  similar  occasion  that 
she  and  her  husband  were  at  length  induced  to  tell  me 
their  little  history  ;  and  before  giving  the  reader  an  ac- 
count of  what  fell  under  my  own  personal  observa- 
tion, I  shall  lay  before  him,  in  my  own  way,  the  sub- 
stance of  several  painfully  interesting  conversations 
with  this  most  unfortunate  couple.     Let  not  the  ordi- 
nary reader  spurn  details  of  everyday  life,  such  as  will 
here  follow, 

"  Nor  grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor  '" 

B  2 


28  THE   MERCHANT'S    CLERK. 

Owing  to  a  terrible  domestic  calamity,  it  became 
necessary  that  Henry  Elliott,  an  only  son,  educating  at 
Oxford,  and  destined  for  the  army,  should  suddenly  quit 
the  university,  and  seek  a  livelihood  by  his  own  exer- 
tions in  London.  The  event  which  Occasioned  this 
sudden  blight  to  his  prospects,  was  the  suicide  of  his 
father,  Major  Elliott;  whose  addiction  to  gambling, 
having  for  a  long  time  seriously  embarrassed  his  affairs, 
and  nearly  broken  the  heart  of  his  wife,  at  length  led 
him  to  commit  the  fatal  act  above  spoken  of.  His 
widow  survived  the  shock  scarce  a  twelvemonth,  and 
her  unfortunate  son  was  then  left  alone  in  the  world, 
and  almost  entirely  destitute.  The  trifling  sum  of 
ready  money  which  remained  in  his  possession  after 
burying  his  mother  was  exhausted,  and  the  scanty  pit- 
tance afforded  by  his  relatives  withdrawn  on  the  ground 
that  he  ought  now  to  support  himself,  when  his  occa- 
sional inquiries  after  a  situation  at  length  led  to  the  in- 
formation that,  there  was  a  vacancy  for  an  outer  clerk 
in  the  great  house  of  Hillary,  Hungate,  and  Company, 
Mincing  Lane,  in  the  city.  He  succeeded  in  satisfying 
the  junior  partner  of  this  house,  after  submitting  to 
a  great  number  of  humiliating  inquiries  in  regard  to 
his  respectability  and  trustworthiness ;  and  he  was 
forthwith  received  into  the  establishment,  at.  a  salary 
of  60Z.  per  annum. 

It  was  a  sad  day  for  poor  Elliott  when  he  sold  off 
almost  all  his  college  books,  and  a  few  other  remnants 
of  gay  and  happy  days,  gone  by  probably  for  ever,  for  the 
purpose  of  equipping  himself  becomingly  for  his  new  and 
humble  functions.  He  wrote  an  excellent  hand  ;  and 
being  of  a  decided  mathematical  turn,  the  arithmetic  of 
the  counting  house  was  easily  mastered.  What  dismal 
drudgery  had  he  henceforth  daily  to  undergo  !  The 
tyranny  of  the  upper  clerks  reminded  him,  with  a  pang, 
of  the  petty  tyranny  he  had  both  received  and  inflicted 
at  the  public  school  where  he  had  been  educated. 
How  infinitely  more  galling  and  intolerable  was  his 
present  bondage  !     Two  thirds  of  the  day  he  was  kep\ 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  29 

constantly  on  foot,  hurrying  from  place  to  place,  with 
bills,  letters,  &c,  and  on  other  errands  ;  and  espe- 
cially on  foreign  post  nights,  he  was  detained  slaving 
sometimes  till  nine  or  ten  at  night,  copying  letters,  and 
assisting  in  making  entries  and  balancing  accounts,  till 
his  pen  almost  dropped  from  his  wearied  fingers.  He 
was  allowed  an  hour  in  the  middle  of  the  day  for  dinner ; 
and  even  this  little  interval  was  often  broken  in  upon  to 
such  an  extent  as  proved  seriously  prejudicial  to  his 
health.  After  all  the  labours  of  the  day,  he  had  to 
trudge  from  Mincing  Lane,  along  the  odious  City  Road 
up  to  almost  the  extremity  of  Islington,  where  was 
situated  his  lodging,  that  is,  a  little  back  bedroom,  on 
the  third  floor,  serving  at  once  for  his  sitting  and 
sleeping  room,  and  for  the  use  of  which  he  paid  at 
the  rate  of  seven  shillings  a  week,  exclusive  of  extras. 
Still  he  conformed  to  his  cheerless  lot,  calmly  and 
resolutely,  with  a  true  practical  stoicism  that  did  him 
honour.  His  regular  and  frugal  habits  enabled  him  to 
subsist  upon  his  scanty  salary  with  decency,  if  not 
comfort,  and  without  running  into  debt — that  infallible 
destructive  of  all  peace  of  mind  and  all  self-respect! 
His  sole  enjoyment  was  an  occasional  hour  in  the 
evening,  spent  in  reading,  and  retracing  some  of  his 
faded  acquisitions  in  mathematics.  Though  a  few  of 
his  associates  wTere  piqued  at  what  they  considered  his 
sullen  and  inhospitable  disposition,  yet  his  obliging 
manners,  his  easy  but  melancholy  deportment,  his 
punctuality  and  exactitude  in  all  his  engagements,  soon 
gained  him  the  goodwill  of  his  brethren  in  the  office, 
and  occasionally  an  indication  of  satisfaction  on  the 
part  of  some  one  of  his  august  employers. 

Thus,  at  length,  Elliott  overcame  the  numerous  dis- 
avremcns  of  his  altered  situation,  seeking  in  constant 
employment  to  forget  both  the  gloom  and  gayeties  of  the 
past.  Two  or  three  years  passed  over,  Elliott  contin- 
uing thus  steadily  in  his  course  ;  and  his  salary,  as  a 
proof  of  the  approbation  of  his  employers,  had  been 
annually  increased  by  10Z.  till  he  was  placed  in  com- 

3* 


30  THE    MERCHANTS    CLERK. 

parative  affluence  by  the  receipt  of  a  salary  of  901. 
His  severe  exertions,  however,  insensibly  impaired  a 
constitution,  never  very  vigorous,  and  he  bore  with 
many  a  fit  of  indisposition,  rather  than  incur  the  ex- 
pense of  medical  attendance.  It  may  be  added,  that 
Elliott  was  a  man  of  gentlemanly  exterior  and  enga- 
ging deportment — and  then  let  us  pass  to  a  very  differ- 
ent person. 

Mr.  Hillary,  the  head  of  the  firm,  a  man  of  very 
great  wealth,  had  risen  from  being  a  mere  errand  boy, 
to  his  present  eminence  in  the  mercantile  world,  through 
a  rare  combination  of  good  fortune  and  personal  merit 
— merit-,  as  far  as  concerns  a  talent  for  business,  joined 
wrlh  prudence  and  enterprise.  If  ever  there  came  a 
man  within  the  terms  of  Burke's  famous  philipic,  it  was 
Mr.  Hillary.  His  only  object  was  money-making  ;  he 
knew  nothing,  cared  for  nothing  beyond  it;  till  the  con- 
stant contemplation  of  his  splendid  gains  led  his  desires 
into  the  train  of  personal  aggrandizement.  With  the  in- 
stinctive propensities  of  a  mean  and  coarse. mind,  he 
became  as  tyrannical  and  insolent  in  success  as  in  ad- 
versity he  had  been  supple  and  cringing.  No  spark  of 
generous  or  worthy  feeling  had  ever  been  struck  from 
the  flinty  heart  of  Jacob  Hillary,  of  the  firm  of  Hillary, 
Hungate,  and  Company.  He  was  the  idol  of  a  con- 
stant throng  of  wealth- worshippers  ;  to  everybody  else, 
he  was  an  object  either  of  contempt  or  terror.  He 
had  married  the  widow  of  a  deceased  partner,  by  whom 
he  had  had  several  children,  of  whom  one  only  lived 
beyond  infancy — a  generous,  high-spirited,  enthusiastic 
girl,  whom  her  purse-proud  father  had  destined,  in  his 
own  weak  and  vain  ambition,  to  become  the  wearer  of 
a  coronet.  On  this  dazzling  object  were  Mr.  Hillary's 
eyes  fixed  with  unwavering  earnestness  ;  he  desired 
and  longed  to  pour  the  tide  of  his  gold  through  the 
channel  of  a  peerage.  In  person,  Mr.  Hillary  was  of 
the  middle  height,  but  gross  and  corpulent.  There  was 
no  intellect  in  his  shining  bald  head,  fringed  with  bris- 
tling white  hair — nor  was  there  any  expression  in  his 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  31 

harsh  and  coarse  features  but  such  as  faithfully  adum- 
brated his  character  as  above  described. 

This  was  the  individual,  who,  in  stepping  one  morning 
rather  hastily  from  his  carriage,  at  his  counting  house 
door  in  Mincing  Lane,  fell  from  the  carriage  step,  most 
severely  injuring  his  right  ankle  and  shoulder.  The 
injuries  he  received  upon  this  occasion  kept  him  con- 
fined for  a  long  period  to  his  bed,  and  for  a  still  longer 
one  to  an  easy  chair  in  the  back  drawing  room  of  his 
spacious  mansion  near  Highbury.  As  soon  as  he  was 
able  to  attend  to  business,  he  issued  orders  that  as  El- 
liott was  the  clerk  whose  residence  was  nearest  to 
Bullion  House,  he  should  attend  him  every  morning  for 
an  hour  or  two  on  matters  of  business,  carrying  Mr 
Hillary's  orders  to  the  city,  and  especially  bringing 
him,  day  by  day,  in  a  sealed  envelope,  his  banker's 
book !     A  harassing  post  this  proved  for  poor  Elliott. 

Severe  discipline  had  trained  his  temper  to  bear 
more  than  most  men:  on  these  occasions  it  was  tried 
to  the  uttermost.  Mr.  Hillary's  active  and  energetic 
mind  kept  thus  in  comparative  and  compulsive  seclu- 
sion from  the  only  concerns  he  cared  for  or  that  could 
occupy  it — always  excepting  the  one  great  matter  al- 
ready alluded  to — his  imperious  and  irritable  temper 
became  almost  intolerable.  Elliott  would  certainly 
have  thrown  up  his  employment  under  Mr.  Hillary 
in  disgust  and  despair,  had  it  not  been  for  one  circum- 
stance— the  presence  of  Miss  Hillary — whose  sweet 
appealing  looks  day  after  day  melted  away  the  reso- 
lution with  which  Elliott  every  morning  came  before 
her  choleric  and  overbearing  father,  although  they 
could  not  mitigate  that  father's  evil  temper,  or  prevent 
its  manifestations.  He  insisted  on  her  spending  the 
greater  part  of  every  day  in  his  presence,  nor  would 
allow  her  to  quit  it  even  at  the  periods  when  Elliott 
made  his  appearance.  The  first  casual  and  hasty 
glance  that  he  directed  towards  her,  satisfied  him  that 
he  had,  in  earlier  and  happy  days,  been  many  times 
in  general  society  with  her — her  partner  even  in  the 


32  THE  MERCHANT  S    CLERK. 

dance.  Noic,  however,  he  dared  not  venture  to  exhibit 
the  slightest  indication  of  recognition ;  and  she,  if 
struck  by  similar  recollections,  thought  fit  to  conceal 
them,  and  behave  precisely  as  though  she  then  saw  and 
heard  of  Mr.  Elliott  for  the  first  time  in  her  life.  He 
could  not,  of  course,  find  fault  with  her  for  this  ;  but 
he  felt  it  deeply  and  bitterly.  He  little  knew  how 
much  he  wronged  her!  She  instantly  recollected  him 
— and  it  was  only  the  dread  of  her  father  that  restrained 
her  from  a  friendly  greeting.  Having  once  adopted 
such  a  line  of  conduct,  it  became  necessary  to  adhere 
to  it — and  she  did.  But  could  she  prevent  her  heart 
going  out  in  sympathy  towards  the  poor,  friendless,  un- 
offending clerk  whom  her  father  treated  more  like  a 
mere  menial  than  a  respectable  and  confidential  serv- 
ant— him  whom  she  knew  to  be 

"  Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen, 
Fallen  from  his  high  estate  ?" 

Every  day  that  she  saw  him,  her  woman's  heart 
throbbed  with  pity  towards  him  ;  and  pity  is  indeed 
akin  to  love.  How  favourably  for  him  did  his  temper 
and  demeanour  contrast  with  those  of  her  father  !  And 
she  saw  him  placed  daily  in  a  situation  calculated  to 
exhibit  his  real  character — his  disposition,  whether  for 
good  or  evil.  The  fact  was,  that  he  had  become  an 
object  of  deep  interest — even  of  love — to  her,  long 
before  the  thought  had  ever  occurred  to  him  that  she 
viewed  him,  from  day  to  day,  with  feelings  different 
from  those  with  which  she  would  look  at  the  servant 
that  stood  at  her  father's  sideboard  at  dinner.  His 
mind  was  kept  constantly  occupied  by  his  impetuous 
employer,  and  his  hundred  questions  about  everything 
that  had  'Or  had  not  happened  every  day  in  the  city 
Thus  for  nearly  three  months  had  these  unconscious 
lovers  been  brought  daily  for  an  hour  or  two  intp  each 
other's  presence.  He  had  little  idea  of  the  exquisite 
pain  occasioned  Miss  Hillary  by  her  father's  harsh  and 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  3.3 

unfeeling  treatment  of  him,  nor  of  the  many  timid  at- 
tempts she  made,  in  his  absence,  to  prevent  th*e  recur- 
rence of  such  treatment ;  and  as  for  the  great  man, 
Mr.  Hillary,  it  never  crossed  his  mind  as  being  possi- 
ble that  two  young  hearts  could,  by  any  means,  when 
in  different  ranks  of  society,  one  rich,  the  other  poor, 
be  warmed  into  a  feeling  of  regard,  and  even  love  for 
one  another. 

One  afternoon  Elliott  was  obliged  to  come  a  second 
time  that  day  from  the  city,  bearing  important  des- 
patches from  Mincing  Lane  to'  Mr.  Hillary,  who  was 
sitting  in  his  invalid  chair,  flanked  on  one  hand  by  his 
daughter,  and  on  the  other  by  a  little  table,  on  which 
stood  wine  and  fruit.  Poor  Elliott  looked,  as  well 
he  might,  exhausted  wTith  his  long  and  rapid  walk 
through  the  fervid  sunshine. 

"  Well,  sir — what  now  ?"  said  her  father,  quickly  and 
peremptorily,  at  the  same  time  eagerly  stretching  forth 
his  hand  to  receive  a  letter  which  Elliott  presented  to 
him. 

"  Humph  !  Sit  down  there,  sir,  for  a  few  minutes  !" 
Elliott  obeyed.  Miss  Hillary,  who  had  been  reading, 
touched  with  Elliott's  pale  and  wearied  look,  whispered 
to  her  father,  "  Papa — Mr.  Elliott  looks  dreadfully 
tired — may  I  offer  him  a  glass  of  wine  V 

"  Yes,  yes,"  replied  Mr.  Hillary,  hastily,  without 
removing  his  eyes  from  the  letter  he  had  that  instant 
opened.  Miss  Hillary  instantly  poured  out  a  glass  of 
wine ;  and  as  Elliott  approached  to  take  it  from  the 
table,  with  a  respectful  bow,  his  eye  encountered  hers, 
which  was  instantly  withdrawn  ;  but  not  before  it  had 
cast  a  glance  upon  him  that  electrified  him — that  fell 
suddenly  like  a  spark  of  fire  amid  the  combustible  feel- 
ings of  a  most  susceptible  but  subdued  heart.  It  fixed 
the  fate  of  their  lives.  The  train  so  long  laid  had  been 
at  length  unexpectedly  ignited,  and  the  confounded  clerk 
returned  or  rather  staggered  towards  his  chair,  fancying 
that  everything  in  the  room  was  whirling  around  him. 
It  was  well  for  both  of  them  that  Mr.  Hillary  was  at  that 

B  3 


84  the  merchant's  clerk. 

eventful  moment  absorbingly  engaged  with  a  letter  an- 
nouncing the  sudden  arrival  of  three  ships  with  large 
cargoes  of  an  article  of  which  he  had  been  attempting 
a  monopoly,  and  in  doing  so  had  sunk  a  very  large  sum 
of  ready  money.  In  vain  did  the  conscious  and  con- 
fused girl — confused  as  Elliott — remove  her  chair  to 
the  window,  with  her  back  towards  him,  and  attempt 
to  proceed  with  the  book  she  had  been  reading.  Her 
head  seemed  in  a  whirlpool. 

"  Get  me  my  desk,  Mary,  immediately,"  said  her 
father,  suddenly. 

"  No,  indeed,  papa,  you  didn't,"  replied  Miss  Hil- 
lary, as  suddenly,  for  her  father's  voice  had  recalled 
her  from  a  strange  revery. 

"  My  desk,  Mary — my  desk — dy'e  hear?"  repeated 
her  father,  in  a  peremptory  maimer,  still  conning  over 
the  letter  which  told  him,  in  effect,  that  he  would  re- 
tire to  bed  that  night  four  or  five  thousand  pounds 
poorer  than  he  rose  from  it — ignorant  that  within  the 
last  few  moments,  in  his  very  presence,  had  happened 
that  which  was  to  put  an  end  for  ever  to  all  his  dreams 
of  a  coronet  glittering  upon  his  daughters  brow  ! 

Miss  Hillary  obeyed  her  fathers  second  orders, 
carefully  looking  in  every  direction  but  that  in  which 
she  would  have  encountered  Elliott;  and  whispering  a 
word  or  two  into  her  father's  ear,  quitted  the  room. 
Elliott's  heart  was  beating  quickly  when  the  harsh 
tones  of  Mr.  Hillary,  who  had  worked  himself  into  a 
very  violent  humour,  fell  upon  his  ear,  directing  him  to 
return  immediately  to  the  city,  and  say  he  had  no  an- 
swer to  send  till  the  morning,  when  he  was  to  be  in 
attendance  at  an  early  hour. 

Scarce  knowing  whether  he  stood  on  his  head 
or  his  heels,  Elliott  hurriedly  bowed,  and  withdrew. 
Borne  along  on  the  current  of  his  tumultuous  emotions, 
he  seemed  to  fly  down  the  swarming  City  Road  ;  and 
when  he  reached  the  dull  dingy  little  back  counting 
house  where  he  was  to  be  occupied  till  a  late  hour  of 
the  night,  he  found  himself  not  in  the  fittest  humour  in 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  35 

the  world  for  his  task.  Could  he  possibly  be  mis- 
taken in  interpreting  Miss  Hillary's  look  ?  Was  it  not 
corroborated  by  her  subsequent  conduct  ?  And,  by- 
the-way,  now  that  he  came  to  glance  backward  into 
the  two  or  three  months  during  which  he  had  been 
almost  daily  in  her  presence,  divers  little  incidents 
started  up  into  his  recollection,  all  tending  the  same 
way.  "  Heighho  !"  exclaimed  Elliott,  laying  down 
his  yet  unused  pen,  after  a  long  and  bewildering  reve- 
ry — "  I  wonder  what  Miss  Hillary  is  thinking  about ! 
Surely  I  have  had  a  kind  of  day  dream  !  It  can't  have 
really  happened !  And  yet — how  could  there  have 
been  a  mistake  1  Heaven  knows  I  had  taken  nothing 
to  excite  or  disorder  me — except,  perhaps,  my  long 
walk !  Here's  a  coup  de  soleil,  by-the-way,  with  a 
witness  !  But  only  to  think  of  it — Miss  Hillary — 
daughter  of  Jacob  Hillary,  Esq. — in  love  with — an  un- 
der clerk  of  her  father's — pho  !  it  will  never  do  !  I'll 
think  of  it  to-morrow  morning."  Thus  communed  El- 
liott with"  himself,  by  turns  writing,  pausing,  and  so- 
liloquizing, till  the  lateness  of  the  hour  compelled  him 
to  apply  to  his  task  in  good  earnest.  He  did  not  quit  his 
desk  till  it  had  struck  ten ;  from  which  period  till  that 
at  which  he  tumbled  into  his  little  bed,  he  fancied  that 
scarcely  five  minutes  had  elapsed. 

He  made  his  appearance  at  Bullion  House  the  next 
morning  with  a  sad  fluttering  about  the  heart,  but  it 
soon  subsided,  for  Miss  Hillary  was  not  present  to  pro- 
long his  agitation.  He  had  not  been  seated  for  many 
minutes,  however,  before  he  observed  her  in  a  distant 
part  of  the  gardens,  apparently  tending  some  flowers. 
As  his  eye  followed  the  movements  of  her-graceful 
figure,  he  could  not  avoid  a  faint  sigh  of  regret  at  his 
own  absurdity  in  raising  such  a  superstructure  of 
splendid  possibilities  upon  so  slight  a  foundation.  His 
attention  was  at  that  instant  arrested  by  Mr.  Hillary's 
multifarious  commands  for  the  city :  and,  in  short, 
Miss  Hillary's  absence  from  town  for  about  a  week, 
added  to  a  great  increase  of  business  at  the  counting 


88  the  merchant's  clerk. 

house,  owing  to  an  extensive  failure  of  a  foreign  cor- 
respondent, gradually  restored  Elliott  to  his  senses, 
and  banished  the  intrusive  image  of  his  lovely  tor- 
mentor. Her  unequivocal  exhibition  of  feeling,  how- 
ever— unequivocal  at  least  to  him — on  the  occasion  of 
the  next  meeting,  instantly  revived  all  his  former  ex- 
citement, and  plunged  him  afresh  into  the  soft  tumult 
of  doubts,  hopes,  and  fears,  from  which  he  had  so 
lately  emerged.  Every  day  that  he  returned  to  Mr. 
Hillary  brought  him  fresh  evidence  of  the  extent  to 
which  he  had  encroached  upon  Miss  Hillary's  affec- 
tions ;  and  strange,  indeed,  must  be  that  heart  which, 
feeling  itself  alone  and  despised  in  the  world,  can 
suddenly  find  itself  the  object  of  a  most  enthusiastic 
and  disinterested  attachment  without  kindling  into  a 
flame  of  grateful  affection.  Was  there  anything  won- 
derful or  improbable  in  the  conduct  attributed  to  Miss 
Hillary  1  No.  A  girl  of  frank  and  generous  feeling, 
she  saw  in  one,  whom  undeserved  misfortune  had 
placed  in  a  very  painful  and  trying  position,  the  con- 
stant exhibition  of  high  qualities  ;  a  patient  and  digni- 
fied submission  to  her  father's  cruel  and  oppressive 
•  treatment — a  submission  on  her  account;  she  beheld 
his  high  feeling  conquering  misfortune  ;  she  saw  in  his 
eye — his  every  look — his  whole  demeanour,  suscepti- 
bilities of  an  exalted  description  :  and  beyond  all  this 
— last,  though  not  least,  as  Elliott  acted  the  gentle- 
man, so  he  looked  it — and  a  handsome  gentleman,  too  ! 
So  it  came  to  pass,  then,  that  these  two  hearts  be- 
came acquainted  with  each  other,  despite  the  obstacles 
of  circumstance  and  situation.  A  kind  of  telegraphing 
courtship  was  carried  on  between  them  daily,  which 
must  have  been  observed  by  Mr.  Hillary,  but  for  the  en- 
grossing interest  with  which  he  regarded  the  commu- 
nications of  which  Elliott  was  always  the  bearer.  Mr. 
Hillary  began,  however,  at  length,  to  recover  the  use 
of  his  limbs,  and  rapidly  to  gain  general  strength.  He 
consequently  announced  one  morning  to  Elliott,  that  he 
should  not  require  him  to  call  after  the  morrow. 


the  merchant's  clerk.  37 

At  this  time  the  lovers  had  never  interchanged  a  syl- 
lable together,  either  verbal  or  written,  that  could  sa- 
vour of  love  ;  and  yet  each  was  as  confidant  of  the 
state  of  the  others  feelings,  as  though  a  hundred 
closely  written,  and  closer-crossed  letters,  had  been 
passing  between  them.  On  the  dreadful  morrow  he 
was  pale  and  somewhat  confused,  ftorwas  she  far  other- 
wise ;  but  she  had  a  sufficient  reason  in  the  indisposi- 
tion of  her  mother,  who  had  for  many  months  been  a 
bed-ridden  invalid.  As  for  Elliott,  he  was  safe.  He 
might  have  appeared  at  death's  door  without  attracting 
the  notice,  or  exciting  the  inquiries  of  his  callous  em- 
ployer. As  he  rose  to  leave  the  room,  Elliott  bowed  to 
Mr.'  Hillary  ;  but  his  last  glance  was  directed  towards 
Miss  Hillary,  who,  however,  at  that  moment  was,  or 
appeared  to  be,  too  busily  occupied  with  pouring  out 
her  excellent  father's  coffee,  to  pay  any  attention  to 
her  retiring  lover,  who  consequently  retired  from  her 
presence  not  a  little  piqued  and  alarmed. 

They  had  no  opportunity  of  seeing  one  another  till 
nearly  a  month  after  the  occasion  just  alluded  to  ;  when 
they  met  under  circumstances  very  favourable  for  the 
expression  of  such  feelings  as  either  of  them  dared  to 
acknowledge — and  the  opportunity  was  not  thrown 
awav.  Mr.  Hillary  had  quitted  town  for  the  north,  on 
urgent  business,  which  was  expected  to  detain  him  for 
nearly  a  fortnight ;  and  Elliott  failed  not,  on  the  fol- 
lowing Sunday,  to  be  at  the  post  he  had  constantly  oc- 
cupied for  some  months  — namely,  a  seat  in  the  gallery 
of  the  church  attended  by  Mr.  Hillary  and  his  family, 
commanding  a  distant  view  of  the  great  central  pew — 
matted,  hassocked,  and  velvet  cushioned,  with  a  rich 
array  of  splendid  implements  of  devotion,  in  the  shape 
of  Bibles  and  prayer  books,  great  and  small,  with  gilt 
edges,  and  in  blue  and  red  morocco,  being  the  favoured 
spot  occupied  rjy  the  great  merchant — where  he  was 
pleased  by  his  presence  to  assure  the  admiring  vicar 
of  his  respect  for  him  and  the  established  church. 
Miss  Hillary  had  long  since   been  aware  of  the  pres- 

4 


38  the  merchant's  clerk. 

ence  of  her  timid  and  distant  lover  on  these  occa- 
sions ;  they  had  several,  times  nearly  jostled  against 
one  another  in  going  out  of  church,  the  consequence 
of  which  was  generally  a  civil  though  silent  recogni- 
tion of  him.  And  this  might  be  done  with  impunity, 
seeing  how  her  wealthy  father  was  occupied  with  nod- 
ding to  everybody,  genteel  enough  to  be  so  publicly- re- 
cognised, and  shaking  hands  with  the  select  few  who 
enjoyed  his  personal  acquaintance.  With  what  a  dif- 
ferent air  and  with  what  a  different  feeling  did  the 
great  merchant  and  his  humble  clerk  pass  on  these 
occasions  down  the  aisle  ! 

But  to  return.  On  the  Sunday  above  alluded  to, 
Elliott  beheld  Miss  Hillary  enter  the  church  alone, 
and  become  the  solitary  tenant  of  the  family  pew.  Sad 
truants  from  his  prayer  book,  his  eyes  never  quitted 
the  fair  and  solitary  occupant  of  Mr.  Hillary's  pew ; 
but  she  chose,  in  some  wayward  humour,  to  sit  that 
morning  with  her  back  turned  towards  the  part  of  the 
church  where  she  knew  Elliott  to  be,  and  never  once 
looked  up  in  that  direction.  They  met,  however,  after 
the  service,  near  the  door,  as  usual ;  she  dropped  her 
black  veil  just  in  time  to  prevent  his  observing  a  cer- 
tain sudden  flush  that  forced  itself  upon  her  features  ; 
returned  his  modest  bow  ;  a  few  words  of  course  were 
interchanged  ;  it  threatened,  or  Elliott  chose  to  repre- 
sent that  it  threatened  to  rain :  (which  he  heartily  wished 
it  would,  as  she  had  come  on  foot,  and  unattended:) 
and  so,  in  short,  it  came  to  pass  that  this  very  discreet 
couple  were  to  be  seen  absolutely  walking  arm  in  arm 
towards  Bullion  House,  at  the  slowest  possible  pace, 
and  by  the  most  circuitous  route  that  could  suggest 
itself  to  the  flurried  mind  of  Elliott.  An  instinctive 
sense  of  propriety,  or  rather  prudence,  led  him  to  quit 
her  arm  just  before  arriving  at  that  turn  of  the  road 
which  brought  them  full  in  sight  of  her  father's  house. 
There  they  parted,  each  satisfied  as  to  the  nature  of  the 
other's  feelings,  though  nothing  had  then  passed  be- 
tween them  of  an  explicit  or  decisive  character. 


THE    MERCHANT  S    CLERK.  39 

It  is  not  necessary  for  me  to  dwell  on  this  part  of 
their  history.  Where  there  is  a  will,  it  is  said,  there 
is  a  way ;  and  the  young  and  venturous  couple  found, 
before  long,  an  opportunity  of  declaring  to  each  other 
their  mutual  feelings.  Their  meetings  and  corres- 
pondence were  contrived  and  carried  on  with  the  utmost 
difficulty.  Great  caution  and  secrecy  were  necessary 
to  conceal  the  affair  from  Mr.  Hillary,  and  those  whose 
interest  it  was  'O  give  him  early  information  on  every 
matter  that  in  any  way  concerned  him.  Miss  Hillary 
buoyed  herself  up  with  the  hope  of  securing,  in  due  time, 
her  mother,  and  obtaining  her  intercessions  with  her 
stern  and  callous-hearted  father.  Some  three  months, 
or  thereabouts,  after  the  Sunday  just  mentioned,  Mr.  Hil- 
lary returned  from  the  city,  and  made  his  appearance  at 
dinner,  in  an  unusually  gay  and  lively  humour.  Miss 
Hillary  was  at  a  loss  to  conjecture  the  occasion  of 
such  an  exhibition  ;  but  imagined  it  must  be  some  great 
speculation  of  his  which  had  proved  unexpectedly  suc- 
cessful. He  occasionally  directed  towards  her  a  kind 
of  grim  leer,  as  though  longing  to  communicate  tidings 
which  he  expected  to  be  as  gratifying  to  her  as  they 
were  to  himself.  They  dined  alone  ;  and  as  she  was 
retiring  rather  earlier  than  usual,  in  order  to  attend 
upon  her  mother,  who  had  that  day  been  more  than  ordi- 
narily indisposed,  he  motioned  her  to  resume  her  seat. 

"  Well,  Molly" — for  that  was  the  elegant  version  of 
her  Christian  name  which  he  generally  adopted  when 
in  a  good  humour — "well,  Molly,"  pouring  out  a  glass 
of  wine,  as  the  servants  made  their  final  exit,  "  I  have 
heard  something  to-day,  in  the  city — ahem  !  in  which 
you  are  particularly  concerned — very  much  so — and — 
s0 — ahem  ! — am  1 !"  He  tossed  off  half  of  his  glass, 
and  smacked  his  lips  as  though  he  unusually  relished 
the  flavour. 

"  Indeed,  papa  !"  exclaimed  the  young  lady,  with  an 
air  of  anxious  vivacity,  not  attempting  to  convey  to  her 
lips  the  brimming  wineglass  her  father  had  filled  for 
her,  lest  the  trembling  of  her  hand  should  be  observed 


40  THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK. 

by  him.  "  Oh,  you  are  joking  !  what  can  1  have  to  do 
with  the  city,  papa  ?" 

"  Do  ?  Aha,  my  girl !  '  What  can  you  have  to  do 
in  the  city,' "  good-humouredly  attempting  to  imitate 
her  tone,  "  indeed  I  Don't  try  to  play  mock  modest 
with  me  !  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  what  I  am  going 
to  say !"  he  added,  looking  at  her  archly,  as  he  fancied, 
but  so  as  to  blanch  her  cheek  and  agitate  her  whole 
frame  with  an  irresistible  tremour.  Her  acute  and  feel- 
ing father  observed  her  emotion.  "  There  now,  that's 
iust  the  way  all  you  young  misses  behave  on  these 
occasions  !  I  suppose  it's  considered  mighty  pretty  ! 
As  if  it  wasn't  all  a  matter  of  course  for  a  young  woman 
to  hear  about  a  young  husband  !" 

"  Papa,  how  you  do  love  a  joke  !"  replied  Miss  Hil- 
lary, with  a  sickly  smile,  making  a  desperate  effort  to 
carry  her  wineglass  to  her  lips,  in  which  she  suc- 
ceeded, swallowing  every  drop  that  was  in  it,  while 
her  father  electrified  her  by  proceeding :  "  It's  no  use 
mincing  matters  ;  the  thing  is  gone  too  far." 

"  Gone  too  far !"  echoed  Miss  Hillary,  mechanically. 

"  Yes,  gone  too  far,  I  say,  and  I  stick  to  it.  A  bar- 
gain's a  bargain  all  the  world  over,  whatever  it's  about ; 
and  a  bargain  I've  struck  to-day.  You're  my  daughter 
— my  only  daughter,  d'ye  see — and  I've  been  a  good 
while  on  the  lookout  for  a  proper  person  to  marry  you 
to ;  and,  egad  !  to-day  I've  got  him  ;  my  future  son-in- 
law,  d'ye  hear,  and  one  that  will  clap  a  coronet  on  my 
pretty  Molly's  head ;  and  on  the  day  he  does  so,  I  do 
two  things  ;  I  give  you  a  plum,  and  myself  cut  Min- 
cing Lane,  and  sink  the  shop  for  the  rest  of  my  days. 
There's  nuts  for  you  to  crack  !  Aha,  Molly,  what  d'ye 
say  to  all  this  ?     An't  it  news  ?" 

"  Say !  why  I — I — I — "  stammered  the  young  lady, 
her  face  nearly  as  white  as  the  handkerchief  on  which 
her  eyes  were  violently  fixed,  and  with  which  her  fin- 
gers were  hurriedly  playing. 

11  Why,  Molly!    What's  the  matter  ?   What  the , 

ahem !  are  you  gone  so  pale  for  ?     Gad,  1  see  how  it 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  41 

is ;  I  have  been  too  abrupt,  as  your  poor  mother  has 
it !  But  the  thing  is  as  I  said,  that's  flat,  come  what 
will,  say  it  how  one  will,  take  it  how  you  will !  So 
make  up  your  mind,  Molly,  like  a  good  girl  as  you  are  ; 
come,  kiss  me  !  I  never  loved  you  so  much  as  now  I'm 
going  to  lose  you  !" 

She  made  no  attempt  to  rise  from  her  chair,  so  he 
got  up  from  his  own,  and  approached  her. 

"  Auad,  but  what's  the  matter  here  ?  Your  little 
hands  are  as  cold  as  a  corpse's.  Why,  Molly,  what — 
what  nonsense."  He  chucked  her  under  the  chin. 
t;  You're  trying  to  frighten  me,  Molly,  I  know  you  are  ! 
ah-ha  V  He  grew  more  and  more  alarmed  at  her  deadly 
paleness  and  apparent  insensibility  to  what  he  was  say- 
ing. ';  Well,  now — "  he  paused,  and  looked  anxiously 
at  her.  "  Who  would  have  thought,"  he  added,  sud- 
denly, "  that  it  would  have  taken  the  girl  aback  so  1 
Come,  come  !"  slapping  her  smartly  on  her  back,  "  a 
joke's  a  joke,  and  I've  had  mine,  but  it's  been  carried 
too  far,  I'm  afraid." 

"Dear — dearest  papa,"  gasped  his  daughter,  sud- 
denly raising  her  eyes,  £nd  fixing  them  with  a  steadfast 
brightening  look  upon  his,  at  the,  same  time  catching 
hold  of  his  hands  convulsively,  "  so  it  is — a  joke!  a — 
joke — it  is — it  is  ;"  and  gradually  sinking  back  in  her 
chair,  to  her  fathers  unspeakable  alarm,  she  swooned. 
Holding  her  in  his  arms,  he  roared  stoutly  for  assist- 
ance, and  in  a  twinkling  a  posse  of  servants,  male  and 
female,  obeying  the  summons,  rushed  pellmell  into  the 
dining  room  ;  the  ordinary  hubbub  attendant  on  a  faint- 
ing fit  ensued — cold  water  sprinkled,  eau  de  Cologne, 
volatile  salts,  &c.,  &c.  Then  the  young  lady,  scarce 
restored  to  her  senses,  was  supported,  or  rather  carried, 
by  her  maid  to  her  own  apartment,  and  Mr.  Hillary 
was  left  to  himself  for  the  remainder  of  the  evening, 
flustered  and  confounded  beyond  all  expression.  The 
result  of  his  troubled  ruminations  was,  that  the  sudden 
communication  of  such  prodigious  good  fortune  had  up- 
set his  daughter  with  joy,  and  that  he  must  return  to 

4* 


42  the  merchant's  clerk. 

the  charge  in  a  day  or  two,  and  break  it  to  her  more 
easily.  The  real  fact  was,  that  he  had  that  day  assured 
the  Right  Honourable  Lord  Viscount  Scamp  of  his 
daughter's  heart,  hand,  and  fortune  ;  and  that  exem- 
plary personage  had  agreed  to  dine  at  Bullion  House  on 
the  ensuing  Sunday,  for  the  purpose  of  being  introduced 
to  his  future  viscountess,  whose  noble  fortune  was  to 
place  his  financial-  matters  upon  an  entirely  new  basis, 
at  least  for  some  time  to  come,  and  enable  him  to  show 
his  honest  face  once  more  in  divers  amiable  coteries  at 

C 's  and  elsewhere.     Old  Hillary's  dazzled  eyes 

could  see  nothing  but  his  lordship's  coronet ;  and  he 
had  no  more  doubt  about  his  right  thus  to  dispose  of 
his  daughter's  heart  than  he  had  about  his  right  to 
draw  upon  Messrs.  Cash,  Credit,  and  Co.,  his  bankers, 
without  first  consulting  them  to  ascertain  whether  they 
would  honour  his  drafts. 

Miss  Hillary  did  not  make  her  appearance  the  next 
morning  at  her  father's  breakfast  table,  her  maid  being 
sent  to  say,  that  her  young  lady  had  a  violent  head- 
ache, and  so  forth ;  the  consequence  of  which  was, 
that  the  old  gentleman  departed  for  the  city  in  a  ter- 
rible temper,  as  every  member  of  this  establishment 
could  have  testified  if  they  had  been  asked.  Miss 
Hillary  had  spent  an  hour  or  two  of  the  preceding 
midnight  in  writing  to  Elliott  a  long  and  somewhat  in- 
coherent account  of  what  had  happened.  She  gave 
but  a  poor  account  of  herself  to  her  father  at  dinner 
that  day.  He  was  morosely  silent.  She  pale,  absent, 
disconcerted. 

"  What  the  devil  is  the  matter  with  you,  Mary  ?"  in- 
quired Mr.  Hillary,  with  stern  abruptness,  as  soon  as 
the  servants  had  withdrawn ;  "•  what  were  all  those 
tantrums  of  yours  about  last  night,  eh  ?" 

"  Indeed,  papa,"  replied  his  trembling  daughter,  "  I 
hardly  know  ;  but  really,  you  must  remember  you  said 
such  very  odd  things,  and  so  suddenly,  and  you  looked 
so  angry." 

"  Tut,   girl,   pho !    Fiddle  faddle !"   exclaimed   her 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  43 

father,  gulping  down  a  glass  of  wine  with  great  en- 
ergy. "  I  could  almost — ahem  ! — really,  it  looked  as 
if  you  had  taken  a  little  too  much,  eh  ?  What  harm 
was  there  in  me  telling  you  that  you  were  going  soon 
to  be  married?  What's  a  girl  bom  and  bred  up  for 
but  to  be  married?  Eh,  Mary  ?"  continued  her  father, 
determined,  this  time,  to  go  to  work  with  greater  skill 
and  tact  than  on  the  preceding  evening.  "  I  want  an 
answer,  Mary !" 

"  Why,  papa,  it  was  a  very  odd  thing  now,  was  not 
it?"  said  his  daughter,  with  an  affectionate  smile, 
drawing  nearer  to  her  father,  her  knees  trembling, 
however,  the  while ;  "  and  I  know  you  did  it  only  to 
try  whether  I  was  a  silly  vain  girl !  Why  should  I 
want  to  be  married,  papa,  when  you  and  my  poor  mam- 
ma are  so  kind  to  me  ?" 

"  Humph !"  grunted  her  father,  gulping  down  a 
great  glass  of  claret.  "  And  d'ye  think  we're  to  live 
for  ever?  I  must  see  you  established  before  long,  for 
my  health,  hem  !  hem  !  is  none  of  the^trongest ;"  (he 
had  scarcely  ever  known  what  an  hour's  illness  was 
in  his  life,  except  his  late  accident,  from  which  he  had 
completely  recovered  ;)  M  and  as  for  your  poor  mother, 
you  know — "  A  long  pause  ensued  here.  "Now,  sup- 
pose," continued  the  wily  tactician,  u  suppose,  Molly," 
looking  at  her  very  anxiously,  u  suppose  I  wasn't  in 
a  joke  last  night,  after  all  ?" 

"  Well,  papa—" 

"  Well,  papa .'"  echoed  her  father,  sneeringly  and 
snappishly,  unable  to  conceal  his  ill  humour  ;  "  but  it 
isn't '  well,  papa ,-'  I  can't  understand  all  this  nonsense. 
Mary,  you  must  not  give  yourself  airs.  Did  you  ever 
hear — ahem  !" — he  suddenly  stopped  short,  sipped 
his  wine,  and  paused,  evidently  intending  to  make 
some  important  communication,  and  striving,  at  the 
same  time,  to  assume  an  unconcerned  air — "  did  you 
ever  hear  of  ihe  Right  Honourable  the  Lord  Viscount 
Scamp,  MoL*j  9s 

"  Yes  ;  Vm  ' ;J>n  things  about  him  now  and  then  in 


44  the  merchant's  clerk. 

the  newspapers.  Isn't  he  a  great  gambler,  papa  ?"  in- 
quired Miss  Hillary,  looking  at  her  father  calmly. 

"  No,  it's  a  lie,"  replied  her  father,  furiously,  whirling 
:about  the  ponderous  seals  of  his  watch.  "  Has  any 
one  been  putting  fhis  into  your  head?" 

"  No  one,  indeed,  papa,  only  the  newspapers — " 

"  And  you  are  such  an  idiot  as  to  believe  news- 
papers 1  Didn't  they  say,  a  year  or  two  ago,  that  my 
house  was  in  for  20,000Z.  when  Gumarabic  and  Co. 
broke  1  And  wasn't  that  a  great  lie  1  I  didn't  lose  a 
fiftieth  of  the  sum  !  No,"  he  added,  after  a  long  pausey 
"  Lord  Scamp  is  no  such  thing,  He's  a  vastly  agree- 
able young  man,  and  takes  an  uncommon  interest  in 
city  matters,  and  that's  saying  no  small  thing  for  a 
nobleman  of  his  high  rank.  Why,  it's  said  he  may 
one  day  be  a  duke  !" 

"  Indeed,  papa !    And  do  you  know  him  ?" 

"  Y — y — es  !  Know  him  1  Of  course  !  Do  you 
think  I  come  and  talk  up  at  Highbury  about  every- 
body I  know  1  Know  Lord  Scamp  ?  He's  an  orna- 
ment to  the  peerage." 

"  How  long  have  you  known  him,  papa  ?" 

"  How  long,  puss  !  Why  this — a  good  while  I 
However,  he  dines  here  on  Sunday." 

"  Dines  here  on  Sunday  !  Lord  Scamp  dines  here 
next  Sunday  ?  Oh,  papa !  this  is  another  joke  of 
yours  !"  f   " 

"  Curse  me,  then,  if  I  can  see  it  f  What  the  deuse 
is  there  so  odd  in  my  asking  a  nobleman  to  dinner,  if 
I  think  proper  ?  Why,  if  it  comes  to  that,  I  can  buy 
up  a  dozen  of  them  any  day,  if  I  choose  ;"  and  he, 
thrust  his  hands  deeply  into  his  breeches  pockets. 

"  Yes,  dear  papa,  I  know  you  could,  if  they  were 
worth  buying,"  replied  Miss  Hillary,  with  a  faint  smile. 
w  Give  me  a  great  merchant  before  a  hundred  good- 
for-nothing  lords !"  and  she  rose,  put  her  hands  about 
hi»  neck  and  kissed  him  fondly. 

"  Well — I — I  don't  think  you're  so  vastly  far  off  the 
mark  there,  at  any  rate,  Polly,"  said  her  father,  with  a 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  45 

subdued  air  of  exultation ;  "  but  at  the  same  time,  you 
know,  there  may  be  lords  as  good  as  any  merchant  in 
the  city  of  London — hem !  and,  after  all,  a  lord's  a 
superior  article,  too,  in  respect  of  birth  and  breeding.', 

11  Yes,  papa,  they're  all  well  enough,  I  dare  say,  in 
their  own  circles  :  but  in  their  hearts,  depend  upon  it, 
they  only  despise  us  poor  citizens." 

"  Us  poor  citizens — I  like  that !"  drawled  her  father, 
pouring  out  his  wine  slowly  with  a  magnificent  air,  and 
drinking  it  off  in  silence.  "  You  shall  see,  however, 
on  Sunday,  Poll !  whether  you're  correct — " 

"  What !  am  /  to  dine  with  you  P  inquired  Miss  Hil- 
lary, with  irrepressible  alarm. 

u  You  to  dine  with  us  ?  Of  course  you  will !  Why 
the  devil  should  not  you  V 

"  My  poor  mamma — " 

"  Oh — ahem !  I  mean — nonsense — you  can  go  to 
her  after  dinner.     Certainly,  you  must  attend  to  her." 

"  Very  well,  papa,  I  will  obey  you,  whatever  *you 
like,"  replied  Miss  Hillary,  a  sudden  tremour  running 
from  head  to  foot. 

'*  That's  a  dear  good  girl — that's  my  own  Poll ! 
And  hearken,"  he  added,  with  a  mixture  of  good  hu- 
mour and  anxiety,  "  make  yourself  look  handsome  ; 
never  mind  the  cost ;  money's  no  object,  you  know ! 
So  tell  that  pert  minx,  your  maid  Joliffe,  that  I  expect 
she'll  turn  you  out  first  rate  that  day,  if  it's  only  to  save 
the  credit  of  us — poor — merchants  /" 

"  Gracious,  papa,  but  why  are  you  really  so  anxious 
about  my  dressing  so  well  V 

Her  father,  who  had  sat  swallowing  glass  after  glass 
with  unusual  rapidity,  at  the  same  time  unconsciously 
mixing  his  wines,  put  his  finger  to  the  side  of  his  nose, 
and  winked  in  a  very  knowing  manner.  His  daughter 
saw  her  advantage  in  an  instant ;  and  with  the  ready 
tact  of  her  sex  resolved  at  once  to  find  out  all  that  was 
in  her  father's  heart  concerning  her.  She  smiled  as 
cheerfully  as  she  could,  and  affected  to  enter  readily 
into  all  his  feelings.     She  poured  him  out  one  or  two 


46  the  merchant's  clerk. 

glasses  more  of  his  favourite  wine,  arid  chattered  as 
fast  as  himself,  till  she  at  length  succeeded  in  extract- 
ing from  him  an  acknowledgment  that  he  had  dis- 
tinctly promised  her  to  Lord  Scamp,  whose  visit,  oa 
the  ensuing  Sunday,  would  be  paid  to  her  as  to  his 
future  wife.  Soon  after  this,  she  rang  for  candles  ; 
and  kissing  her  father,  who  had  fairly  fallen  asleep, 
she  withdrew  to  her  own  room,  and  there  spent  the 
next  hour  or  two  in  confidential  converse  with  her  maid 
Joliffe. 

Sunday  came,  and,  true  enough,  with  it  Lord  Scamp ; 
a  handsome,  heartless  coxcomb,  whose  cool,  easy  as- 
surance, and  businesslike  attentions  to  Miss  Hillary, 
excited  in  her  a  disgust  she  could  scarcely  conceal. 
In  vain  was  her  father's  eager  and  anxious  eye  fixed 
upon  her  ;  she  maintained  an  air  of  uniform  indifference  ; 
listened  almost  in  silence,  the  silence  of  contempt,  to 
all  the  lisping  twaddle  uttered  by  her  would-be  lover, 
and  so  well  acted,  in  short,  the  part  she  had  deter- 
mined upon,  that  his  lordship,  as  he  drove  home,  felt 
somewhat  disconcerted  at  being  thus  foiled  for,  as  he 
imagined,  the  first  time  in  his  life  ;  and  her  father,  af- 
ter obsequiously  attending  his  lordship  to  his  cab,  sum- 
moned his  trembling  daughter  back  from  her  mother's 
apartment  into  the  drawing  room,  and  assailed  her  with 
a  fury  she  had  never  known  him  to  exhibit,  at  least 
towards  any  member  of  his  family. 

From  that  day  might  be  dated  the  commencement 
of  a  kind  of  domestic  reign  of  terror,  at  the  hitherto 
quiet  and  happy  Bullion  House.  The  one  great  aim  of 
her  father  concerning  his  daughter  and  his  fortune  had 
been — or  rather  seemed  on  the  point  of  being — frus- 
trated by  that  daughter.  But  he  was  not  lightly  to  be 
turned  from  his  purpose.  He  redoubled  his  civilities  to 
Lord  Scamp,  who  kept  up  his  visits  with  a  systematic 
punctuality,  despite  the  contemptuous  and  disgustful  air 
with  which  the  young  lady  constantly  received  him. 
The  right  honourable  roue  was  playing,  indeed,  for  too 
deep  a  stake — an  accomplished  and  elegant  girl,  with  a 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  47 

hundred  thousand  pounds  down,  and  nearly  double  that 
sum,  he  understood,  at  her  father's  death — to  admit  of 
his  throwing  up  the  game,  wThile  the  possibility  of  a 
chance  remained.  Half  the  poor  girl's  fortune  was 
already  transferred,  in  Lord  Scamp's  mind,  to  the 
pockets  of  half  a  dozen  harpies  at  the  turf  and  the 
table  ;  so  he  was,  as  before  observed,  very  punctual  in 
his  engagements  at  Bullion  House,  with  patient  polite- 
ness continuing  to  pay  the  most  flattering  attentions  to 
Miss  Hillary — and  her  father.  The  latter  was  kept 
in  a  state  of  constant  fever.  Conscious  of  the  transpa- 
rent contempt  exhibited  by  his  daughter  towards  her 
noble  suitor,  he  could  at  length  hardly  look  his  lordship 
in  the  face,  as,  day  after  day,  he  obsequiously  assured 
him  that  "  there  wasn't  anything  in  it" — and  that  for 
all  his  daughter's  nonsense,  he  already  "  felt  himself  a 
lord's  father-in-law  !" 

Miss  Hillary's  life  was  becoming  intolerable,  sub- 
jected as  she  was  to  such  systematic  persecution,  from 
\? hich,  at  length,  the  sickchamber  of  her  mother  scarce 
afforded  her  a  momentary  sanctuary.  A  thousand 
times  she  formed  the  desperate  determination  to  con- 
fess all  to  her  father,  and  risk  the  fearful  consequences  : 
for  such  she  dreaded  they  would  be,  knowing  well  her 
father's  disposition,  and  the  terrible  frustration  of  his 
favourite  schemes  which  was  taking  place.  Such  con- 
stant anxiety  and  agitation,  added  to  confinement  in 
her  mother's  bedchamber,  sensibly  affected  her  health  ; 
and  at  the  suggestion  of  Elliott,  with  whom  she  con- 
trived to  keep  up  a  frequent  correspondence,  she  had 
at  length  determined  upon  opening  the  fearful  commu- 
nication to  her  father,  and  so  be  at  all  events  deliv- 
ered from  the  intolerable  presence  and  attentions  of 
Lord  Scamp. 

By  what  means  it  came  to  pass,  neither  she  nor 
Elliott  were  ever  able  to  discover  ;  but  on  the  morning 
of  the  day  she  had  fixed  for  her  desperate  denouement^ 
Mr.  Hillary,  during  the  temporary  absence  of  his 
dauohter,  returned  from  the  city  about   two   o'clock, 


48  THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERIC. 

most  unexpectedly,  his  manner  disturbed,  and  his  coun- 
tenance pale  and  distorted.  Accompanied  by  his  soli- 
citor, he  made  his  way  at  once  to  his  daughter's  apart- 
ment, with  his  own  hand  seized  her  desk  and  carried 
it  down  to  the  drawing  room,  and  forced  it  open. 
Frantic  with  fury,  he  was  listening  to  one  of  Elliott's 
fondest  letters  to  his  daughter  being  read  by  his  soli- 
citor as  she  unconsciously  entered  the  drawing  room, 
in  walking  attire.  It  would  be  in  vain  to  attempt  de- 
scribing the  scene  that  immediately  ensued.  Old  Hil- 
lary's lips  moved,  but  his  utterance  was  choked  by  the 
tremendous  rage  which  possessed  him,  and  forced  him 
almost  to  the  verge  of  madness.  Trembling  from  head 
to  foot,  and  his  straining  eyes  apparently  starting  from 
their  sockets,  he  pointed  in  silence  to  a  little  heap  of 
opened  letters  lying  on  the  table,  on  which  stood  also 
her  desk.  She  perceived  that  all  was  discovered — 
and  with  a  smothered  scream  fell  senseless  upon  the 
floor.  There,  as  far  as  her  father  was  concerned,  she 
might  have  continued  ;  but  his  companion  sprang  to 
the  bell,  lifted  her  inanimate  form  from  the  floor,  and 
gave  her  to  the  entering  servants,  who  instantly  bore 
her  to  her  own  room.  Mr.  Jeffreys  the  solicitor,  a 
highly  respectable  man,  to  whom  Mr.  Hillary  had  hur- 
ried the  instant  that  he  recovered  from  the  first  shock 
occasioned  by  discovering  his  daughter's  secret,  ve- 
hemently expostulated  with  his  client  on  hearing  the 
violent  and  vindictive  measures  he  threatened  to  adopt 
towards  his  daughter  and  Elliott ;  for  the  tone  of  the 
correspondence  which  then  lay  before  him  had  satis- 
fied him  of  the  fatal  extent  to  which  his  daughter's 
affections  were  engaged. 

Now  her  treatment  of  Lord  Scamp  was  accounted 
for!  Her  dreadful  agitation  on  first  hearing  his  in- 
tentions concerning  that  young  nobleman  and  herself 
was  explained.  So  here  was  his  fondest  hope  blighted 
—the  sole  ambition  of  his  life  defeated — and  by  one 
of  his  own — his  inferior  servants — an  outer  clerk  on 
his  establishment  at  Mincing  Lane  !     Confounded  by 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  49 

a  retrospect  into  the  last  few  months,  "  Where  have 
been  my  eyes — my  common  sense  ?"  he  groaned  ; 
"the  devil  himself  has  done  it  all,  and  made  me  assist 
in  it !  Oh,  I  see  !  1  remember  !  Those  cursed  days 
when  he  came  up  from  the  city  to  me — and  when — I 
must  always  have  her  with  me  !  There  the  mischief 
was  begun — oh,  it's  clear  as  the  daylight !     Fve  done 

it !     I've  done  it  all  !     And  now,  by !   I'll  undo 

it  all !"  Mr.  Jeffreys  at  length  succeeded  in  subduing 
the  excitement  of  his  client,  and  bringing  him  to  con- 
verse calmly  on  the  painful  and  embarrassing  discovery 
that  had  been  made.  Innumerable  were  the  conjec- 
tures as  to  the  means  by  which  this  secret  acquaintance 
and  correspondence  had  been  carried  on.  Every  ser- 
vant in  the  house  was  examined — but  in  vain.  Even 
Joliffe,  his  daughter's  maid,  came  at  length,  however 
strongly  suspected,  still  undiscovered,  out  of  the  fierce 
and  searching  scrutiny.  Poor  Mrs.  Hillary's  precarious 
situation  even  did  not  exempt  her  from  the  long  and 
angry  inquiries  of  her  exasperated  husband.  She  had 
really,  however,  been  entirely  unacquainted  with  the 
affair. 

The  next  morning  Elliott  was  summoned  from  the 
city  to  Bullion  House,  whither  he  repaired  accordingly 
about  twelve  o'clock,  little  imagining  the  occasion  of 
his  summons ;  for  Miss  Hillary  had  not  communicated 
to  him  the  intention  she  had  formed  of  breaking  the 
matter  to  her  father,  nor  had  she  any  opportunity  of 
telling  him  of  the  alarming  discovery  that  had  taken 
place  He  perceived,  nevertheless,  certain  symptoms 
of  disturbance  in  the  ominous  looks  of  the  porter  who 
opened  the  hall  door  and  the  servant  who  conducted  him 
to  the  drawing  room,  where  he  found  Mr.  Hillary  and 
another  gentleman — Mr.  Jeffreys — seated  together  at 
a  table  covered  with  papers,  both  of  them  obviously 
agitated. 

44  So,  sir,"  commenced  Mr.  Hillary,  fixing  his  furious 
eyes  upon  Elliott  as  he  entered,  "  your  villany's  found 
out,  deep  as  you  are  !" 

c  5 


50  THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK. 

"  Villany,  sir  ?"  echoed  Elliott,  indignantly,  but  turn- 
ing very  pale. 

"Yes,  sir,  villany  !  villany!  d ble  villany  !  ay, 

it's  all  found  out !  Ah — ah— you  cursed  scoundrel !" 
exclaimed  Mr.  Hillary,  with  quivering  lips  and  shaking 
his  fist  at  Elliott. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Mr.  Hillary,  be  calm  !"  whispered 
Mr.  Jeffreys,  and  then  addressed  Elliott  with  a  quiet 
severity — "  Of  course,  Mr.  Elliott,  you  are  aware  of 
the  occasion  of  this  dreadful  agitation  on  the  part  of 
Mr.  Hillary  ?"  Elliott  bowed  with  a  stern  inquisitive 
air,  but  did  not  open  his  lips. 

"  You  beggarly  brute — you  filthy  d — d  upstart — 
you — you" — stammered  Mr.  Hillary,  with  uncontrol- 
lable fury,  "  your  father  was  a  scoundrel  before  you, 
sir — he  cut  his  throat,  sir !" 

Elliott's  face  whitened  in  an  instant,  his  expanding 
eye  settled  upon  Mr.  Hillary,  and  his  chest  heaved 
with  mighty  emotion.  It  was"  happy  for  the  old  man 
that  Elliott  at  length  recollected  in  him  the  father  of 
Mary  Hillary.  He  turned  his  eye  for  an  instant  to- 
wards Mr.  Jeffreys,  who  was  looking  at  him  with  an 
imploring,  compassionate  expression;  Elliott  saw  and 
felt  that  he  was  thunderstruck  at  the  barbarity  of  his 
client.  Elliott's  eye  remained  fixed  upon  Mr.  Jeffreys 
for  nearly  a  minute,  and  then  filled  with  tears.  Mr. 
Jeffreys  muttered  a  few  words  earnestly  in  the  ear  of 
Mr.  Hillary,  who  seemed  also  a  little  staggered  at  the 
extent  of  his  last  sally. 

"  Will  you  take  a  seat,  Mr.  Elliott  ?"  said  Mr.  Jef- 
freys, mildly.  Elliott  bowed,  but  remained  standing, 
his  hat  grasped  by  his  left  hand  with  convulsive  force. 
•  "  You  will  make  allowance,  sir,"  continued  Mr.  Jef- 
freys, "  for  the  dreadful  agitation  of  Mr.  Hillary,  and 
reflect  that  your  own  conduct  has  occasioned  it." 

"  So  you  dare  think  of  marrying  my  daughter,  eh?" 
thundered  Mr.  Hillary,  as  if  about  to  rise  from  his  chair. 
"  By ,  but  I'll  spoil  your  sport  though — I'll  be  even 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  51 

with  you !"  gasped  the  old  man,  and  sank  back  pant- 
ing in  his  seat. 

"  You  cannot  really  be  in  earnest,  sir,"  resumed  Mr. 
Jeffreys,  in  the  same  calm  and  severe  tone  and  man- 
ner in  which  he  had  spoken  from  the  first,  "  in  thinking 
vourself  entitled  to  form  an  attachment  and  alliance  to 
Miss  Hillary  T 

"  Why  am  I  asked  these  questions,  sir,  and  in  this 
most  extraordinary  manner  '?"  inquired  Elliott,  firmly. 
"  Have  I  ever  said  one  single  syllable  ?" 

*'  Oh,  spare  your  denials,  Mr.  Elliott,"  said  Jeffreys, 
pointing  with  a  bitter  smile  to  the  letters  lying  open 
on  the  table  at  which  he  sat  ;  "  these  letters  of  yours 
express  your  feelings  and  intentions  pretty  plainly. 
Believe  me,  sir,  everything  is  known !" 

"  Well,  sir,  and  what  then?"  inquired  Elliott,  haughti- 
ly ;  "  those  letters,  I  presume,  are  mine,  addressed  to 
Miss  Hillary  V  Jeffreys  bowed.  "  Well  then,  sir,  I 
now  avow  the  feelings  those  letters  express.  I  have 
formed,  however  unworthy  myself,  a  fervent  attachment 
to  Miss  Hillary,  and  I  will  die  before  I  disavowal. " 

"  There  !  hear  him  \  hark  to  the  fellow  T  I  shall  go 
mad — I  shall !"  almost  roared  Mr.  Hillary,  springing 
out  of  his  chair,  and  walking  to  and  fro  between  it  and 
that  occupied  by  Mr.  Jeffreys,  wTith  hurried  steps  and 
vehement  gesticulations.  M  He  owns  it !  he  does  ! 
the — "  and  he  uttered  a  perfect  volley  of  execrations. 
Elliott  submitted  to  them  in  silence.  Mr.  Jeffreys 
again  whispered  energetically  into  the  ear  of  his  client, 
who  resumed  his  seat,  but  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  Elli- 
ott, and  muttering  vehemently  to  himself. 

"  You  see,  sir,  the  wretchedness  that  your  most  un- 
warrantable— your  artful — nay,  your  wicked  and  pre- 
sumptuous conduct  has  brought  upon  this  family.  I 
earnestly  hope  that  it  is  not  too  late  for  you  to  listen  to 
reason — to  abandon  your  insane  projects."  He  paused, 
and  Elliott  bowed.  "  It  is  in  vain,"  continued  Mr.  Jef- 
freys, pointing  to  the  letters,  "  to  conceal  our  fears  that 
your  attentions  must  have  proved  acceptable  to  Miss 

c2 


52  the  merchant's  clerk. 


•' 


Hillary  ;  but  we  give  you  credit  for  more  honour,  more 
good  sense  than  will  admit  of  your  carrying  further 
this  most  unfortunate  affair,  of  your  persisting  in  such 
a  wild — I  must  speak  plainly — such  an  audacious  at- 
tachment, one  that  is  utterly  unsuitable  to  your  means, 
your  prospects,  your  station,  your  birth,  your  educa- 
tion— " 

"  You  will  be  pleased,  sir,  to  drop  the  last  two 
words,"  interrupted  Elliott,  sternly. 

"  Why,  you  fellow !  why,  you're  my  clerk !  I  pay 
you  wages !  You're  a  hired  servant  of  mine  1"  ex- 
claimed Hillary,  with  infinite  contempt. 

"  Well,  sir,"  continued  Jeffreys,  "  this  affair  is  too 
important  to  allow  of  our  quarrelling  about  words. 
Common  sense  must  tell  you  that  under  no  possible 
view  of  the  case  can  you  be  a  suitable  match  for  Miss 
Hillary  ;  and  therefore,  common  honesty  enjoins  the 
course  you  ought  to  pursue.  However,  sir,"  he  added, 
in  a  sharper  tone,  evidently  piqued  at  the  composure 
and  firmness  maintained  by  Elliott,  "  the  long  and  short 
of  it  is,  that  this  affair  will  not  be  allowed  to  go  fur- 
ther, sir.  Mr.  Hillary  is  resolved  to  prevent  it — come 
what  will." 

"Ay,  so  help  me  God!"  ejaculated  Mr.  Hillary, 
casting  a  ferocious  glance  at  Elliott. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Elliott,  with  a  sigh, <l  what  would 
you  have  me  do  ?     Pray,  proceed,  sir." 

"  Immediately  renounce  all  pretensions,"  replied  Mr. 
Jeffreys,  eagerly,  "  to  Miss  Hillary  ;  return  her  letters 
— pledge  yourself  to  discontinue  your  attempts  to  gain 
her  affections,  and  I  am  authorized  to  offer  a  foreign 
situation  connected  with  the  house  you  at  present  serve, 
and  to  guaranty  you  a  fixed  income  of  500Z.  a  year." 

"  Ay  !— hark'ee,  Elliott,  I'll  do  all  this,  so  help  me 
God !."  suddenly  interrupted  Mr.  Hillary,  casting  a  look 
of  imploring  agony  at  Elliott,  who  bowed  respectfully, 
but  made  no  reply. 

"  Suppose,  sir,"  continued  Mr.  Jeffreys,  with  an 
anxious  and  disappointed  air,  "  suppose,  sir,  for  a  mo- 


THE    MERCHANT  S    CLERK.  53 

ment,  that  Miss  Hillary  were  to  entertain  equally  ar- 
dent feelings  towards  you  with  those  which,  in  these 
letters,  you  have  expressed  to  her — can  you,  as  a  man 
of  honour — of  delicacy — of  spirit — persevere  with  your 
addresses  where  the  inevitable  consequence  of  success 
on  your  part  must  be  her  degradation  from  the  sphere 
in  which  she  has  hitherto  moved — her  condemnation 
to  straitened  circumstances — perhaps  to  absolute  want 
— for  life  !  For  believe  me,  sir,  if  you  suppose  that 
Mr.  Hillary's  fortune  is  to  supply  you  both  with  the 
means  of  defying  him — to  support  you  in  a  life,  on  her 
part,  of  frightful  ingratitude  and  disobedience,  and  on 
yours  of  presumption  and  selfishness,  you  will  find 
yourself  awfully  mistaken !" 

"  He's  speaking  the  truth-*-by he  is  !"  said  Mr. 

Hillary,  striving  to  assume  a  calm  manner.  "  If  you 
do  come  together  after  all  this,  d — n  me  if  I  don't  leave 
every  penny  I  have  in  the  world  to  a  hospital — or  to 
a  jail — in  which  one  of  you  may  perhaps  end  your 
days,  after  all !" 

"Perhaps,  Mr.  Elliott,"  resumed  Jeffreys,  "I  am  to 
infer  from  your  silence  that  you  doubt — that  you  dis- 
believe these  threats.  If  so,  I  assure  you,  you  are 
grievously  and  fatally  mistaken ;  you  do  not,  believe 
me,  know  Mr.  Hillary  as  I  know  him  and  have  known 
him  these  twenty  years  and  upward.  I  solemnly  and 
truly  assure  you  that  he  will  as  certainly  do  what  he 
says,  and  for  ever  forsake  you  both,  as  you  are  stand- 
ing now  before  us  !"  He  paused.  "  Again,  sir,  you 
may  imagine  that  Miss  Hillary  has  property  of  her 
own — at  her  own  disposal.  Do  not  so  sadly  deceive 
yourself  on  that  score  !  .  Miss  Hillary  has,  at  this  mo- 
ment, exactly  600/.  at  her  own  disposal — " 

"  Ay,  only  600Z. — that's  the  uttermost  penny !" 

"And  how  long  is  that  to  last! — come,  sir,  allow 
me  to  ask  you  what  you  have  to  say  to  all  this  ?"  in- 
quired Mr.  Jeffreys,  folding  his  arms,  and  leaning  back 
in  his  chair,  with  an  air  of  mingled  chagrin  and  ex- 
haustion,    Elliott  drew  a  long  breath. 

.     5* 


54  the  merchant's  clerk. 

"  I  have  but  little  to  say,  Mr.  Jeffreys,  in  answer  to 
what  you  have  been  stating,"  he  commenced,  with  a 
melancholy  but  determined  air.  "  However  you  may 
suspect  me,  and  misconstrue,  and  misrepresent  my  char- 
acter and  motives,  I  never  in  my  life  meditated  a  dis- 
honourable action."  He  paused,  thinking  Mr.  Hillary 
was  about  to  interrupt  him,  but  he  was  mistaken.  Mr. 
Hillary  was  silently  devouring  every  word  that  fell 
from  Elliott,  as  also  was  Mr.  Jeffreys.  "  I  am  here  as 
a  hired  servant,  indeed,"  resumed  Elliott,  with  a  sigh, 
"and  I  am  the  son  of  one  who — who — was  an  unfor- 
tunate— "  His  eyes  filled,  and  his  voice  faltered.  For 
some  seconds  there  was  a  dead  silence.  The  perspi- 
ration stood  on  every  feature  of  Mr.  Hillary's  agitated 
countenance.  u  But  of  course,  all  this  is  as  nothing 
here."  He  gathered  courage,  and  proceeded  with  a 
calm  and  resolute  air.  "  I  know  how  hateful  I  must 
now  appear  to  you.  I  do  deserve  bitter  reproof — and 
surely  I  have  had  it,  for  my  presumption  in  aspiring  to 
the  hand  and  heart  of  Miss  Hillary.  I  tried  long  to 
resist  the  passion  that  devoured  me,  but  in  vain.  Mis^s 
Hillary  knew  my  destitute  situation ;  she  had  many 
opportunities  of  ascertaining  my  character ;  she  con- 
ceived a  noble  affection  for  me — I  returned  her  love  ; 
I  was  obliged  to  do  it  secretly,  and  as  far  as  that  goes 
I  submit  to  my  censure — I  feel — I  know  that  I  have 
done  wrong !  If  Miss  Hillary  choose  to  withdraw  her 
affection  from  me,  I  will  submit  though  my  heart  break. 
If,  on  the  contrary,  she  continue  to  love  me" — his  eye 
brightened — "  I  am  not  cowardly  or  base  enough  to  un- 
dervalue her  love."  (Here  Mr.  Hillary  struggled  with 
Mr.  Jeffreys,  who,  however,  succeeded  in  restraining 
his  client.)  "  If  Miss  Hillary  condescend  to  become 
my  wife — " 

"  Oh  Lord  !  oh  Lord  !  oh  Lord  !"  groaned  Mr.  Hil- 
lary, clasping  his  hands  upon  his  forehead  ;  "  open  the 
windows,  Mr.  Jeffreys,  or  I  shall  be  smothered — I  am 
dying — I  shall  go  mad  I" 


THE    MERCHANT  S    CLERK.  55 

u  I  will  retire,  sir,"  said  Elliott,  addressing  Mr.  Jef- 
freys, who  was  opening  the  nearest  window. 

"No,  but  you  shan't  though,"  gasped  Mr.  Hillary; 
"you  shall  stop  here" — he  panted  for  breath.  "Hark'ee, 
sir — d'ye  hear,  Elliott — listen" — he  could  not  recover 
his  breath.  Mr.  Jeffreys  implored  him  to  take  time, 
to  be  cool.  "  Yes  ;  now  I'm  cool  enough — I've — taken 
time — to  consider — I  have  !  Hark'ee,  sir — if  you  dare 
to  think — of  having — my  daughter — and  if  she — is  such 
a  cursed  fool — as  to  think  of  having — you" — he  stopped 
for  a  few  seconds  for  want  of  breath — ''  why — look'ee, 
sir — so  help  me  God — you  may  both — both  of  you — 
and  your  children — if  you  have  any — die  in  the  streets 
— like  dogs — I've  done  with  you — both  of  you — not  a 
farthing — not  a  morsel  of  bread — d — n  me  if  I  do  1" 
Here  he  breathed  like  a  hard-run  horse.  "  Now,  sir 
— like  a  thief  as  you  are  ! — go  on  courting — my  daugh- 
ter— marry  her  !  ruin  her  !  go,  and  believe  that  all  I'm 
saying  is — a  lie  ! — go,  and  hope — that,  by-and-by,  I'll 
forgive  you — and  all  that — try  it,  sir  !  Marry,  and  see 
whether  I  give  in  !  I'll  teach  you — to  rob  an  old  man 
— of  his  child  !  The  instant  you  leave  this  house,  sir 
— this  gentleman — makes  my  will — he  does  ! — and 
when  I'm  dead — you  may  both  of  you — go  to  Doctors' 
Commons — borrow  a  shilling,  if  you  can — and  see  if 
your  names — or  your  children's — are  in  it,  ha,  ha,  ha  !" 
he  concluded,  with  a  bitter  and  ghastly  laugh,  snapping 
his  shaking  fingers  at  Elliott.  "  Get  away,  sir — marry 
after  this,  if  you  dare  !" 

Elliott  almost  reeled  out  of  the  room,  and  did  not 
fully  recollect  himself  till  the  groom  of  his  aristocratic 
competitor,  Lord  Scamp,  whose  cab  was  dashing  up  to 
the  gates  of  Bullion  House,  shouted  to  him  to  get  out 
of  the  way,  or  be  driven  over  ! 

Elliott  returned  to  his  desk,  at  Mincing  Lane,  too 
much  agitated  and  confused,  however,  to  be  able  to  at- 
tend to  business.  He  therefore  obtained  a  reluctant 
permission  to  absent  himself  till  the  morrow.  Even 
the  interval  thus  afforded,  however,  he  was  quite  inca 


56  the  merchant's  clerk. 

pable  of  spending  in  the  reflection  required  by  the  very 
serious  situation  in  which  he  had  been  so  suddenly 
placed.  He  could  not  bring  his  mind  to  bear  distinctly 
upon  any  point  of  his  interview  with  Mr.  Hillary  and 
Mr.  Jeffreys  ;  and  at  length,  lost  and  bewildered  in  a 
maze  of  indefinite  conjecture — of  painful  hopes  and 
fears,  he  retired  early  to  bed.  There,  after  tossing 
about  for  several  hours,  he  at  length  dropped  asleep — 
and  awoke  at  an  early  hour  considerably  refreshed  and 
calmed.     Well,  then,  what  was  to  be  done  1 

He  felt  a  conviction  that  Mr.  Hillary  would  be  an 
uncompromising — an  inexorable  opponent  of  their  mar- 
riage, however  long  they  might  postpone  it  with  the 
hope  of  wearing  out  or  softening  away  his  repugnance 
to  it ;  and  that  if  they  married  in  defiance  of  him,  he 
would  fulfil  every  threat  hq  had  uttered.  Of  these  two 
points  he  felt  as  certain  as  of  his  existence. 

He  felt  satisfied  that  Miss  Hillary's  attachment  to 
him  was  ardent  and  unalterable  ;  and  that  nothing  short 
of  main  force  would  prevent  her  from  adopting  any 
suggestion  he  might  offer.  As  for  himself,  he  was 
passionately — and  his  heart  loudly  told  him  disinter- 
estedly attached  to  her ;  he  could,  therefore,  as  far  as 
he  himself  was  concerned,  cheerfully  bid  adieu  to  all 
hopes  of  enjoying  a  shilling  of  her  father's  wealth,  and 
be  joyfully  content  to  labour  for  their  daily  bread.  But 
a  fearful  array  of  contingencies  here  presented  them-  > 
selves  before  him.  Suppose  they  married,  they  would 
certainly  have  600Z.  to  commence  with  ;  but  suppose 
his  health  failed  him,  or  from  any  other  cause  he  should 
become  unable  to  support  himself,  a  wife,  and — it  might 
be — a  large  family,  how  soon  would  6001.  disappear  ? 
And  what  would  be  then  before  them?  His  heart 
shrank  from  exposing  the  generous  and  confiding  crea- 
ture whose  love  he  had  gained,  to  such  terrible  dangers. 
He  could — he  would — write  to  her,  and  entreat  her  to 
forget  him — to  obey  the  reasonable  wishes  of  her  father. 
He  felt  that  Mr.  Hillary  had  great  and  grievous  cause 
for  complaint  against  him  ;  could  make  every  allowance 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  57 

for  his  feelings,  and  forgive  their  coarse  and  extrava- 
gant manifestation ;  and  yet,  when  he  reflected  upon 
some  expressions  he  had  let  fall — upon  the  intense  and 
withering  scorn  and  contempt  with  which  he  had  been 
treated,  the  more  he  looked  at  this  view  of  the  case, 
the  more  he  felt  the  spirit  of  a  man  swelling  within 
him.  He  never  trod  so  firmly,  nor  carried  himself  so 
erectly,  as  he  did  on  his  way  down  to  the  city  that 
morning. 

But  then  again — what  misery  was  poor  Miss  Hillary 
enduring  !  What  cruel  and  incessant  persecution  was 
being  inflicted  upon  her  ;  but  she,  too,  had  a  high  and 
bold  spirit ;  he  kindled  as  he  pursued  his  meditations  ; 
he  felt  that  the  consciousness  of  kindred  qualities  en- 
deared her  to  him  ten  fold  more  even  than  before. 

Thus  he  communed  with  himself,  but  at  length  he 
determined  on  writing  the  letter  he  had  proposed,  and 
did  so  that  -night. 

He  was  not  dismissed,  as  he  had  expected,  from  the 
service  of  Mr.  Hillary,  who  retained  him,  at  the  sug- 
gestion of  Mr.  Jeffreys — that  shrewd  person  feeling 
that  he  could  then  keep  Elliott's  movements  more  dis- 
tinctly under  his  own  eye,  and  have  more  frequent  op- 
portunities of  negotiating  with  him  on  behalf  of  Mr. 
Hillary.  Elliott's  position  in  the  establishment  was 
such  as  never  brought  him  into  personal  contact  with 
Mr.  Hillary  ;  and  apparently  no  one  but  himself  and 
Mr.  Hillary  were  acquainted  with  the  peculiar  circum- 
stances in  which  he  was  placed,  As  before  hinted, 
Mr.  Jeffreys  was  incessant  in  his  efforts,  both  person- 
ally and  by  letter,  to  induce  Elliott  to  break  off  the  dis- 
astrous connection  ;  and,  from  an  occasional  note  which 
Miss  Hillary  contrived — despite  all  the  espionage  to 
which  she  was  subjected — to  smuggle  to  him,  he  learned; 
with  poignant  sorrow,  that  his  apprehensions  of  the 
treatment  she  would  receive  at  the  hands  of  her  father, 
were  but  too  well  founded.  She  repelled  with  an  af- 
fectionate and  indignant  energy,  his  offers  and  propo- 
sals to  break  off  the  affair.     She  told  him  that  her 

c  3 


58  the  merchant's  clerk. 

spirit  rose  with  the  cruelty  she  suffered,  and  declared 
herself  ready,  if  he  thought  fit,  to  fly  from  the  scene  of 
trouble,  and  be  united  to  him  for  ever.  Many  and 
many  a  sleepless  night  did  such  communications  as 
these  ensure  to  Elliott.  He  saw  infinite  danger  in 
attempting  a  clandestine  marriage  with  Miss  Hillary, 
even  should  she  be  a  readily  consenting  "party.  His 
upright  and  manly  disposition  revolted  from  a  measure 
so  underhand,  so  unworthy  ;  and  yet,  what  other  course 
lay  open  to  them  ?  His  own  position  at  the  counting 
house  was  becoming  very  trying  and  painful.  It  soon 
became  apparent  that,  on  some  account  or  another,  he 
was  an  object  of  almost  loathing  disregard  to  the  august 
personage  at  the  head  of  the  establishment;  and  the 
consequence  was,  an  increasing  infliction  of  petty  an- 
noyances and  hardships  by  those  connected  with  him 
in  daily  business.  He  was  required  to  do  more  than 
he  had  ever  before  been  called  upon  to  do,  and  felt 
himself  the  subject  of  frequent  and  offensive  remark, 
as  well  as  suspicion.  The  ill  treatment  of  his  superi- 
ors, however,  and  the  impertinences  of  his  equals  and 
inferiors,  he  treated  with  the  same  patient  and  resolute 
contempt,  conducting  himself  with  the  utmost  vigilance 
and  circumspection, and  applying  to  business,  however 
unjustly  accumulated  upon  him,  with  an  energy,  per- 
severance, and  good  humour,  that  only  the  more  morti- 
fied his  unworthy  enemies.  Poor  Elliott !  why  did  he 
continue  in  the  service  of  Hillary,  Hungate,  and  Com- 
pany ?  How  utterly  chimerical  was  the  hope  he  some- 
times entertained  of  its  being  possible  that  his  exem- 
plary conduct  could  ever  make  any  impression  upon 
the  hard  heart  of  Mr.  Hillary  !  - 

Miss  Hillary  did  really,  as  has  been  just  stated,  suf- 
fer a  martyrdom  at  Bullion  House,  at  the  hands  of  her 
father.  Ever)'"  day  caresses  and  curses  were  alternated, 
and  she  felt  that  she  was  in  fact  a  prisoner — her  every 
movement  watched,  her  every  look  scrutinized.  Mr. 
Hillary  frequently  caused  to  be  conveyed  to  her  reports 
the  most  false  and  degrading  concerning  Elliott  ;  but 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  59 

they  were  such  transparent  fabrications,  as  of  course 
to  defeat  the  ends  proposed.  She  found  some  comfort 
in  the  society  of  her  mother,  who,  though  for  a  long 
time  feeling  and  expressing  strong  disapprobation  of 
her  daughter's  attachment  to  Elliott,  at  length  relented, 
and  even  endeavoured  to  influence  Mr.  Hillary  on  their 
daughter's  behalf.  Her  kind  offices  were,  However, 
suddenly  interrupted  by  a  second  attack  of  paralysis, 
which  deprived  her  of  the  power  of  speech  and  motion. 
This  dreadful  shock,  occurring  at  such  a  moment,  was 
too  much  for  Miss  Hillary,  who  was  removed  from  at- 
tending affectionately  at  the  bedside  of  her  unhappy 
mother,  to  her  own  room,  where  she  lay  for  nearly  a 
fortnight  in  a  violent  fever.  So  far  from  these  domes- 
tic trials  tending,  however,  to  soften  the  heart  of  Mr. 
Hillary,  they  apparently  contributed  only  to  harden  it 
— to  aggravate  his  hatred  of  Elliott — of  him  who  had 
done  so  much  to  disturb,  to  destroy  his  domestic  peace, 
his  fondest  wishes  and  expectations. 

Lord  Scamp  continued  his  interested  and  flattering 
attentions  to  Mr.  Hillary,  with  whom  he  was  contin- 
ually dining,  tand  at  length — a  proof  of  the  prodigious 
ascendency  he  had  acquired  over  Mr.  Hillary — suc- 
ceeded in  borrowing  from  him  a  very  considerable  sum 
of  money.  Hillary  soon  apprized  his  lordship  of  the 
real  nature  of  the  hinderance  to  his  marriage  with  Miss 
Hillary  ;  and  his  lordship  of  course  felt  it  his  duty,  not 
to  speak  of  his  interest,  to  foster  and  inflame  the  fury 
of  his  wished-for  father-in-law  against  his  obscure 
and  presumptuous  rival.  Several  schemes  were  pro- 
posed by  this  worthy  couple  for  the  purpose  of  putting 
an  end  to  the  pretensions  and  prospects  of  this  "  in- 
solent parvenu  of  the  outer  counting  house."  An  ac- 
cidental circumstance  at  length  suggested  to  them  a 
plot  so  artful  and  atrocious,  that  poor  Elliott  fell  a  vic- 
tim to  it. 

On  returning  to  the  counting  house,  one  day,  from 
the  little  chophouse  at  which  he  had  been  swallowing 
av  hasty  and  frugal  dinner,  he  observed  indications  of 


60  THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK. 

some  unusual  occurrence.  No  one  spoke  to  him  ;  all 
seemed  to  look  at  him  as  with  suspicion  and  alarm. 
He  had  hardly  hung  up  his  hat,  and  reseated  himself 
at  his  desk,  when  a  message  was  brought  to  him  from 
Mr.  Hillary,  who  required  his  immediate  attendance 
in  his  private  room.  Thither,  therefore,  "he  repaired, 
with  some  surprise — and  with  more  surpris.  I  held  all 
the  partners  assembled,  together  with  the  head  clerk, 
the  solicitor  of  the  firm,  and  one  or  two  strangers.  He 
had  hardly  closed  the  door  after  himself,  when  Mr. 
Hillary  pointed  to  him,  saying,  "  This  is  your  prisoner 
— take  him  into  custody." 

"  Surrender,  sir — you're  our  prisoner,"  said  one  of 
the  two  strangers,  both  of  whom  now  advanced  to 
him,  one  laying  hold  of  his  collar,  the  other  fumbling 
in  his  pocket,  and  taking  out  a  pair  of  handcuffs.  El- 
liott staggered  several  paces  from  them  on  hearing  the 
astounding  language  of  Mr.  Hillary,  and  but  that  he 
was  held  by  the  officer  who  had  grasped  his  collar, 
seemed  likely  to  have  fallen.  He  turned  deadly  pale. 
For  a  second  or  two  he  spoke  not. 

"  Fetch  a  glass  of  water,"  said  Mr.  Fleming,  one  of 
the  partners,  observing  Elliott's  lips  losing  their  colour, 
and  moving  without  uttering  any  sound.  But  he  re- 
covered himself  from  the  momentary  shock,  without 
the  aid  of  the  water,  which  seemed  to  have  been  placed 
in  readiness  beforehand,  so  soon  was  it  produced. 
Pushing  aside  the  officer's  hand  that  raised  the  glass 
to  his  lips,  he  exclaimed,  "  What,  is  the  meaning  of 
this,  sir?  How  daTe  you  deprive  me  of  my  liberty, 
sir?" — addressing  Mr.  Hillary — "What  am  I  charged 
v/iih  ?" 

"  Embezzling  the  money  of  your  employers,"  inter- 
posed the  solicitor.  As  he  spake,  poor  Elliott  fixed 
upon  him  a  stare  of  horror,  and  after  standing  and 
gazing  in  silence  for  several  moments,  attempted  to 
speak,  but  in  vain ;  and  fell  in  a  kind  of  fit  into  the 
arms  of  the  officers.  When  he  had  recovered,  he  was 
conducted  to  a  hackney  coach  which  had  been  some  time 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  61 

s\  readiness,  and  conveyed  to  the  police  office ;  where,  an 
hour  or  two  afterward,  Mr.  Hillary,  accompanied  by 
Mr.  Fleming,  the  solicitor,  and  two  of  Elliott's  fellow- 
clerks,  attended  to  prefer  the  charge.  Elliott  was  im- 
mediately brought  to  the  bar,  where  he  stood  very  pale, 
but  calm  and  self-possessed,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  Mr. 
Hillary  with  a  steadfast  searching  look  that  nothing 
could  have  sustained  but  his  indignant  consciousness 
of  innocence.  He  heard  the  charge  preferred  against 
him  without  uttering  a  word.  The  firm  had  had  reason 
for  some  time,  it  was  said,  to  suspect  that  they  were 
robbed  by  some  member  of  their  establishment ;  that 
suspicion  fell  at  length  upon  the  prisoner  ;  that  he  was 
purposely  directed  that  day  to  go  unexpectedly  to  din- 
ner, having  been  watched  during  the  early  part  of  the 
morning ;  that  his  desk  was  immediately  opened  and 
searched,  and  three  five-pound  notes,  previously  marked, 
(and  these  produced  so  marked,)  found  in  his  pocket- 
book,  carefully  hid  under  a  heap  of  papers ;  that  he  ■ 
had  been  several  times  lately  seen  with  bank  notes  in 
his  hand,  which  he  seemed  desirous  of  concealing ; 
that  he  had  been  very  intimate  with  one  of  his  fellow- 
clerks,  who  was  now  in  Newgate,  on  a  charge  similar 
to  the  present ;  that  the  firm  had  been  robbed  to  a  con- 
siderable amount ;  that  Elliott  had  only  that  morning 
been  asked  by  one  of  the  clerks,  then  present,  to  lend 
him  some  money,  when  the  prisoner  replied  that  he 
had  not  got  51.  in  the  world.  All  this,  and  more,  El- 
liott listened  to  without  uttering  a  syllable. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  one  of  the  magistrates,  "  what 
have  you  to  say  to  this  very  serious  charge  ?" 

"Say! — why  can  you  believe  it,  sir?"  replied  El- 
liott, with  a  frank  air  of  unaffected  incredulity. 

"Do  you  deny  it,  sir?"  inquired  the  magistrate, 
coldly. 

"  Yes,  I  do  !  Peremptorily,  indignantly  !  It  is  ab- 
surd !  I  rob  my  employers  ?  They  know  better — that 
it  is  impossible  !" 

"  Can  you  prove  that  this  charge  is  false  ?"  said  the 

6 


62  the  merchant's  clerk. 

magistrate,  with  a  matter-of-fact  air.  "  Can  you  ex- 
plain, or  deny  the  facts  that  have  just  been  sworn  to?" 
Elliott  looked  at  him,  as  if  lost  in  thought.  'f.J)o  you 
hear  me,  sir?"  repeated  the  magistrate,  sternly;  "you 
are  not  bound  to  say  anything ;  and  I  would  caution 
you  against  saying  anything  to  criminate  yourself." 
Still  Elliott  paused.  "  If  you  are  not  prepared,  I  will 
remand  you  for  a  week,  before  committing  you  to 
prison." 

"  Commit  me  to  prison,  sir !"  repeated  Elliott,  with 
at  once  a  perplexed  and  indignant  air — "  why,  I  am  as 
innocent  as  yourself !" 

•*  Then,  sir,  you  will  be  able  easily  to  account  for 
the  15Z.  found  in  your  desk  this  morning." 

"Ah,  yes — I  had  forgotten  that — I  deny  the  fact. 
They  could  not  have  been  found  in  my  desk — for  I 
have  not  more  than  41.  and  a  few  shillings  in  the  world, 
till  my  next  quarter's  salary  becomes  due." 

"  But  it  is  sworn  here — you  heard  it  sworn  as  well 
as  I  did — that  the  money  was  found  there.  Here  are 
the  witnesses — you  may  ask  them  any  questions  you 
think  proper — but  they  swore  to  the  fact  most  dis- 
tinctly." 

"  Then,  sir,"  said  Elliott,  with  a  start,  as  if  electri- 
fied with  some  sudden  thought — "  I  see  it  all !  Oh 
God,  I  now  see  it  all !  It  was  placed  there  on  pur- 
pose !  It  is  a  plot  laid  to  ruin  me  !"  He  turned  round 
abruptly  towards  Mr.  Hillary,  and  fixing  a  piercing 
look  upon  him,  he  exclaimed  in  a  low  voice,  "  Oh, 
monster !"  He  was  on  the  eve  of  explaining  Mr.  Hil- 
lary's probable  motives — but  the  thought  of  his  daugh- 
ter suddenly  sealed  his  lips.  "  Sir,"  said  he,  presently, 
addressing  the  magistrate,  "  I  take  God  to  witness  that 
I  am  innocent  of  this  atrocious  charge.  I  am  the  vic- 
tim of  a  conspiracy — commit  me,  sir — commit  me  at 
once.  I  put  my  trust  in  God — the  father  of  the  father- 
less ?" 

The  magistrates  seemed  struck  with  what  he  had 
said,  and  much  more  with  his  manner  of  saying  it. 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  63 

They  leaned  back,  and  conferred  together  for  a  few 
minutes.  "Our  minds  are  not  quite  satisfied,"  said 
the  one  who  had  already  spoken,  "  as  to  the  propriety 
of  immediately  committing  the  prisoner  to  Newgate. 
Perhaps  stronger  evidence  may  be  brought  forward  in 
a  few  days.     Prisoner,  you  are  remanded  for  a  week." 

';  1  hope,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Hillary,  "  that  he  will  by 
that  time  be  able  to  clear  his  character — nothing  I  wish 
more.  It's  a  painful  thing  to  me  and  my  partners  to 
have  to  press  such  a  charge  as  this  ;  but  we  must  pro- 
tect ourselves  from  the  robbery  of  servants  !"  This 
was  said  by  the  speaker  to  the  magistrates  ;  but  he  did 
not  dare  to  look  at  the  prisoner,  whose  piercing  indig- 
nant eye  he  felt  to  be  fixed  on  him,  and  to  follow  his 
every  motion. 

That  day  week  Elliott  was  fully  committed  to  New- 
gate ;  and  on  the  next  morning  the  following  paragraph 
appeared  in  the  newspapers  : — 

" street.     Henry  Elliott,  a  clerk  in  the  house 

of  Hillary,  Hungate,  and  Company,  Mincing  Lane, 
(who  was  brought  to  this  office  a  week  ago,  charged 
with  embezzling  the  sum  of  15/  ,  the  money  of  his  em- 
ployers, and  suspected  of  being  an  accomplice  of  the 
young  man  who  was  recently  committed  to  Newgate 
from  this  office  on  a  similar  charge,)  was  yesterday 
fully  committed  for  trial.  He  is,  we  understand,  a 
young  man  of  respectable  connections,  and  excellent 
education.  From  his  appearance  and  demeanour  he 
would  have  seemed  incapable  of  committing  the  very 
serious  offence  with  which  he  stands  charged.  He 
seemed  horrorstruck  on  the  charge's  being  first  pre- 
ferred, and  asseverated  his  innocence  firmly,  and  in  a 
very  impressive  manner,  declaring  that  he  was  the  vic- 
tim of  a  conspiracy.  In  answer  to  a  question  of  the 
magistrate,  one  of  his  employers  stated,  that  up  to  the 
time  of  preferring  this  charge,  the  prisoner  had  borne 
an  excellent  character  in  the  house." 

The  newspaper  containing  this  paragraph  found  its 
way,  on  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  it  appeared, 


64  THE    MERCHANT^   €LERK. 

into  Miss  Hillary's  room,  through  her  maid,  as  she 
was  preparing  to  undress,  and  conveyed  to  her  the  first 
intimation  of  poor  Elliott's  dreadful  situation.  The 
moment  that  she  had  read  it,  she  sprung  to  her  feet, 
pushed  aside  her  maid,  who  attempted  to  prevent  her 
quitting  her  apartment,  and  with  the  newspaper  in  her 
hand,  flew  wildly  down  the  stairs,  and  burst  into  the 
dining  room,  where  her  father  was  sitting  alone,  in  his 
easy  chair,  drawn  close  to  the  fire.  "  Father  !"  she 
almost  shrieked,  springing  to  within  a  yard  or  two  of 
where  he  was  sitting — "  Henry  Elliott  robbed  you ! 
Henry  Elliott  in  prison  !  A  common  thief !"  pointing 
to  the  newspaper,  with  frantic  vehemence,  "  Is  it  so  ? 
And  you  his  accuser  ?  Oh,  no  !  no  !  never !"  she  ex- 
claimed, a  wild  smile  gleaming  on  her  pallid  counte- 
nance, at  the  same  time  sweeping  to  and  fro  before  her 
astounded  father,  with  swift  but  stately  steps,  continu- 
ing, as  she  passed  and  repassed  him,  "  No,  sir  !  no ! 
no  !  no  !  Oh,  for  shame  !  for  shame,  father  !  Shame 
on  you  !  shame  !  His  father  dead  !  his  mother  dead  ! 
No  one  to  feel  for  him  !  no  one  to  protect  him  !  no 
one  to  love  him — but — me  !"  And  accompanying  the 
last  few  words  with  a  loud  and  thrilling  laugh,  she  fell 
at  full  length  insensible  upon  the  floor. 

Her  father  sat  cowering  in  his  chair,  with  his  hands 
partially  elevated — feeling  as  though  an  angry  angel 
had  suddenly  flashed  upon  his  guilty  privasy ;  and 
when  his  daughter  fell,  he  had  not  the  power  to  quit 
his  chair  and  go  to  her  relief  for  several  seconds.  A 
horrible  suspicion  crossed  his  mind,  that  she  had  lost 
her  reason  ;  and  he  spent  the  next  hour  and  a  half  in  a 
perfect  ecstasy  of  terror.  As  soon,  however,  as  the 
apothecary  summoned  to  her  assistance  had  assured 
him  that  there  were,  happily,  no  grounds  for  his  fears — 
that  she  had  had  a  very  violent  fit  of  hysterics,  but  was 
now  recovered,  and  fallen  asleep — he  ordered  the 
horses  to  his  carriage,  and  drove  off  at  top  speed  to 
the  chambers  of  his  city  solicitor,  Mr.  Newington,  to 
instruct  him   to  procure  Elliott's   instant   discharge. 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  C5 

That,  of  course,  was  utterly  impossible  ;  and  Mr.  Hil- 
lary, almost  stupified  with  terror,  heard  Mr.  Xewington 
assure  him  that  the  King  of  England  himself  could  not 
accomplish  such  an  object !  That  Elliott  must  now 
remain  in  prison  till  the  day  of  trial — about  a  month  or 
six  weeks  hence — and  then  be  brought  to  the  bar  as  a 
felon ;  that  there  were  but  two  courses  to  be  pursued 
on  that  day,  either  not  to  appear  against  the  prisoner, 
and  forfeit  all  the  recognisances,  or  to  appear  in  open 
court,  and  state  that  the  charge  was  withdrawn,  and 
that  it  had  been  founded  entirely  on  a  mistake.  That 
even  then,  in  either  case,  Elliott,  if  reaily  innocent, 
(Mr.  Newington  was  no  party  whatever  to  the  fraudu- 
lent concoction  of  the  charge,  which  was  confined  to 
Mr.  Hillary  and  Lord  Scamp,)  would  bring  an  action 
at  law  against  Mr.  Hillary,  and  obtain,  doubtless,  very 
large  damages  for  the  disgrace,  and  danger,  and  injury 
which  Mr.  Hillary's  unfounded  charge  had  occasioned 
him  ;  or,  more  serious  still,  he  might  perhaps  indict 
all  the  parties  concerned  for  a  conspiracy. 

"  But,"  said  Mr.  Hillary,  almost  sick  with  fright  at 
this  alarming  statement  of  the  liabilities  he  had  in- 
curred, M  J  would  not  wait  for  an  action  to  be  brought 
against  me — I  would  pay  him  any  sum  you  might  se- 
commend,  and  that,  too,  instantly  on  his  quitting  the 
prison  walls." 

"  But,  pardon  me,  Mr.  Hillary — why  all  this  f 
M  Oh — something  of  very  great  importance  has  just 
happened  at  my  house,  which — which — gives  me  quite 
a  different  opinion.    But  I  was  saying  I  would  pay  him 
instantly — " 

"But  if  the  young  man  be  spirited,  and  conscious  of 
his  innocence,  and  choose  to  set  a  high  value  upon  his 
character,  he  will  insist  on  clearing  it  in  open  court, 
and  dare  you  to  the  proof  of  your  charges  before  the 
whole  world — at  least  J  should  do  so  in  such  a  case." 
"  You  would — would  you,  sir  V  exclaimed  Mr.  Hil- 
lary- angrily,  the  big  drops  of  perspiration  standing  upon 
his  forehead. 

6* 


66  the  merchant's  clerk. 

"Certainly — certainly — I  should,  indeed;  but  let 
that  pass.  I  really  don't  see — "  continued  Mr.  New* 
ington,  anxiously. 

*«  D— n  him,  then  !"  cried  Mr.  Hillary,  desperately, 
after  a  pause,  snapping  his  fingers,  "  let  him  do  his 
worst!     He  can  never  find  me  out." 

"  Eh  ?  what  ?"  interrupted  Newington,  briskly,  "  fincl 
you  out  1    What  can  you  mean,  Mr.  Hillary  ?" 

41  Why — a — "  stammered  Mr.  Hillary,  colouring  vio» 
lently,  adding  something  that  neither  he  himself  nor 
Mr.  Newington  could  understand.  The  latter  had  his 
own  surmises — somewhat  vague,  it  is  true— as  to  the 
meaning  of  Mr.  Hillary's  words — especially  coupling 
them,  as  he  did  instantly,  with  certain  expressions  he 
had  heard  poor  Elliott  utter  at  the  police  office.  He 
was  a  prudent  man,  however,  and  seeing  no  particular 
necessity  for  pushing  his  inquiries  further,  he  thought 
it  best  to  let  matters  remain  as  Mr.  Hillary  chose  to 
represent  them. 

Six  weeks  did  poor  Elliott  lie  immured  in  the  dun- 
geons of  Newgate,  awaiting  his  trial — as  a  felon. 
What  pen  shall  describe  his  mental  sufferings  during 
that  period  1  Conscious  of  the  most  exalted  and  scru- 
pulous integrity — he  who  had  never  designedly  wronged 
a  human  being,  even  in  thought — whom  dire  necessity 
only  had  placed  in  circumstances  which  exposed  him 
to  the  devilish  malice  of  such  a  man  as  Hillary — who 
stood  alone,  and  with  the  exception  of  one  fond  heart, 
friendless  in  the  world — whose  livelihood  depended  on 
his  daily  labour,  and  who  had  hitherto  supported  him- 
self with  decency,  not  to  say  dignity,  amid  many 
grievous  discouragements  and  hardships — this  was  the 
man  pining  amid  the  guilty  gloom  of  the  cells  of  New- 
gate, and  looking  forward  each  day  with  shuddering  to 
the  hour  when  he  was  to  be  dragged  with  indignity  to 
the  bar,  and  perhaps  found  guilty,  on  perjured  evidence, 
of  the  shocking  offence  with  which  he  was  charged ! 
And  all  this  was  the  wicked  contrivance  of  Mr.  Hillary 
—the  father  of  his  Mary !     And  was  he  liable  to  be 


THE    MERCHANT^    CLERK.  67 

transported — to  quit  his  country  ignorainiously  and  for 
ever — to  be  banished  with  disgust  and  horror  from  the 
memory  of  her  who  had  once  so  passionately  loved 
him — as  an  impostor — a  villain — a  felon  I  He  re- 
solved not  to  attempt  any  communication  with  Miss 
Hillary,  if  indeed  it  were  practicable  ;  but  to  await, 
with  stern  resolution,  the  arrival  of  the  hour  that  was 
either  to  crush  him  with  unmerited  but  inevitable  in- 
famy and  ruin,  or  expose  and  signally  punish  those 
whose  malice  and  wickedness  had  sought  to  effect  his 
destruction.  What  steps  could  he  take  to  defend  him- 
self? Where  were  his  witnesses?  Who  would  de- 
tect and  expose  the  perjury  of  those  who  would  enter 
the  witness  box  on  behalf  of  his  wealthy  prosecutors  ? 
Poor  soul !  Heaven  support  thee  against  thy  hour  of 
trouble,  and  then  deliver  thee  ! 

Miss  Hillary's  fearful  excitement,  on  the  evening 
when  she  discovered  Elliott's  situation,  led  to  a  slow 
fever,  which  confined  her  to  her  bed  for  nearly  a  fort- 
night ;  and  when,  at  the  end  of  that  period,  she  again 
appeared  in  her  father's  presence,  it  was  only  to  en- 
counter— despite  her  wan  looks — a  repetition  of  the 
harsh  and  cruel  treatment  she  had  experienced  ever 
since  the  day  on  which  he  had  discovered  her  reluc- 
tance to  receive  the  addresses  of  Lord  Scamp.  Day 
after  day  did  her  father  bait  her  on  behalf  of  his  lord- 
ship— with  alternate  coaxing  and  cursing  :  all  was  in 
vain — for  when  Lord  Scamp  at  length  made  her  a 
formal  offer  of  his  precious  "  hand  and  heart,"  she  re- 
jected him  with  a  quiet  contempt  which  sent  him,  full 
of  the  irritation  of  wounded  conceit,  to  pour  his  sor- 
rows into  the  inflamed  ear  of  her  father. 

The  name  that  was  written  on  her  heart — that  was 
constantly  in  her  sleeping  and  wTaking  thoughts,  Elliott 
— she  never,  suffered  to  escape  her  lips.  Her  father 
frequently  mentioned  it  to  her,  but  she  listened  in 
melancholy,  oftener  indignant  silence.  She  felt  con- 
vinced that  there  was  foul  play  on  the  part  of  her 
father  connected  with  Elliott's  incarceration  in  New- 


68  THE    MERCHANT'S   CLERtf. 

gate,  and  could  sometimes  scarcely  conceal,  .when  in 
his  presence,  a  shudder  of  apprehension.  And  was  it 
likely — was  it  possible — that  such  a  measure  towards 
the  unhappy,  persecuted  Elliott,  could  have  any  other 
effect  on  the  daughter,  believing  him,  as  she  did,  to  be 
pure  and  unspotted,  than  to  increase  and  deepen  her 
affection  for  him — to  present  his  image  before  her 
mind's  eye,  as  that  of  one  enduring  martyrdom  on  her 
account,  and  for  her  sake? 

At  length  came  on  the  day  appointed  for  Elliott's 
trial,  and  it  was  with  no  little  trepidation  that  Mr.  Hil- 
lary, accompanied  by  Lord  Scamp,  stepped  into  his 
carriage,  and  drove  down  to  the  Old  Bailey,  where  they 
sat  together  on  the  bench  till  nearly  seven  o'clock,  till 
which  time  th%  court  was  engaged  upon  the  trial  of  a 
man  for  forgery.  Amid  the  bustle  consequent  upon  the 
close  of  this  long  trial,  Hillary,  after  introducing  his 
noble  friend  to  one  of  the  aldermen,  happened  to  cast 
his  eyes  to  the  bar  which  had  been  just  quitted  by  the 
death-doomed  convict  he  had  heard  tried,  when  they 
fell  upon  the  figure  of  Elliott,  who  seemed  to  have 
been  placed  there  for  some  minutes,  and  was  standing 
with  a  mournful  expression  of  countenance,  apparently 
lost  in  thought.  Even  Mr.  Hillary's  hard  heart  was 
almost  touched  by  the  altered  appearance  of  his  victim, 
who  was  greatly  emaciated,  and  seemed  scarce  able 
to  stand  erect  in  his  most  humiliating  position. 

Mr.  Hillary  knew  the  perfect  innocence  of  Elliott ; 
and  his  own  guilty  soul  thrilled  within  him,  as  his  eye 
encountered  for  an  instant  the  steadfast  but  sorrowful  eye 
of  the  prisoner.  In  vain  did  he  attempt  to  appear  to  be 
conversing  carelessly  with  Lord  Scamp,  who  was  him- 
self too  much  agitated  to  attend  to  him  !  The  prisoner 
pleaded  not  guilty.  No  counsel  had  been  retained  for 
the  prosecution,  nor  did  any  appear  for  the  defence. 
The  court,  therefore,  had  to  examine  the  witnesses  ; 
and  suffice  it  to  say,  that  after  about  half  an  hour's  trial, 
in  the  course  of  which  Hillary  was  called  as  a  witness, 
and  trembled  so  excessively  as  to  call  forth  some  en- 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  69 

couraging  expressions  from  the  bench,  the  judge  who 
tried  the  case  decided  that  there  was  no  evidence 
worth  a  straw  against  the  prisoner,  and  consequently 
directed  the  jury  to  acquit  him,  which  they  did  in- 
stantly, adding  their  unanimous  opinion,  that  the  charge 
against  him  appeared  both  frivolous  and  malicious. 

"Am  I  to  understand,"  my  lord,  that  I  leave  the  court 
freed  from  all  taint,  from  all  dishonour  ?"  inquired 
Elliott,  after  the  foreman  had  expressed  the  opinion  of 
the  jury. 

"Certainly — most  undoubtedly  you  do,"  replied  the 
judge. 

"  And  if  I  think  fit,  I  am  at  liberty  hereafter  to  ex- 
pose and  punish  those  who  have  wickedly  conspired  to 
place  me  here  on  a  false  charge  f 

"  Of  course  you  have  your  remedy  against  any  one," 
replied  the  cautious  judge,  "whom  you  can  prove  to 
have  acted  illegally." 

Elliott  darted  a  glance  at  Mr.  Hillary,  which  made 
his  blood  rush  tumultuously  towards  his  guilty  heart, 
and  bowing  respectfully  to  the  court,  withdrew  from 
the  ignominious  spot  which  he  had  been  so  infamously 
compelled  to  occupy.  He  left  the  prison  a  little  after 
eight  o'clock  ;  and  wretched  indeed  were  his  feelings 
as  the  turnkey,  opening  the  outermost  of  the  iron- 
bound  and  spiked  doors,  bade  him  farewell,  gruffly 
adding,  "  Hope  we  mayn't  meet  again,  my  hearty  !" 

"I  hope  not,  indeed  !"  replied  Elliott,  with  a  sigh  ; 
and  descending  the  steps,  found  himself  in  the  street. 
He  scarce  knew,  for  a  moment,  whither  to  direct  his 
steps,  staggering,  overpowered  with  the  strange  feel- 
ing of  suddenly  recovered  liberty.  The  sad  reality, 
however,  soon  forced  itself  upon  him.  What  was  to 
become  of  him  ?  He  felt  wearied  and  faint,  and  almost 
wished  he  had  begged  the  favour  of  sleeping,  for  the 
night,  even  in  the  dreary  dungeons  from  which  he  had 
been  but  that  moment  released.  Thus  his  thoughts  were 
occupied,  as  he  moved  slowly  towards  Fleet-street,  when 


70  the  MerchantVcle&K. 

a  female  figure  approached  him,  muffled  in  a  large 
shawl. 

"Henry — dearest  Henry !"  murmured  the  half-stifled 
voice  of  Miss  Hillary,  stretching  towards  him  both  her 
hands  ;  "  so  you  are  free  !  You  have  escaped  from  the 
snare  of  the  wicked !  Thank  God — thank  God  !  Oh, 
what  have  we  passed  through  since  we  last  met ! 
Why,  Henry,  will  you  not  speak  to  me  ?  Do  you  for- 
sake the  daughter  for  the  sin  of  her  father  T; 

Elliott  stood  staring  at  her  as  if  stupified. 

"  Miss  Hillary  ?"  he  murmured,  incredulously. 

"  Yes — yes  !  I  am  Mary  Hillary  ;  I  am  your  own 
Mary.  But,  oh,  Henry,  how  altered  you  are  !  How 
thin !  How  pale  and  ill  you  look  !  I  cannot  bear  to 
see  you  !"  And  covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  she 
burst  into  a  flood  of  tears. 

"  I  can  hardly — believe — that  it  is  Miss  Hillary," 
muttered  Elliott.  "  But  your  father  ! — Mr.  Hillary  ! 
What  will  he  say  if  he  sees  you?  Are  you  not  ashamed 
of  being  seen  talking  to  a  wretch  like  me,  just  slipped 
out  of  Newgate  ?" 

"  Ashamed  ?  My  Henry — do  not  torture  me  !  I  am 
heartbroken  for  your  sake !  It  is  my  own  flesh  and 
blood  that  I  am  ashamed  of — that  it  could  ever  be  so 
base !" 

Elliott  suddenly  snatched  her  into  his  arms,  and  folded 
her  to  his  breast  with  convulsive  energy. 

If  the  malignant  eye  of  her  father  had  seen  them  at 
that  moment ! 

She  had  obtained  information  that  her  father  was 
gone  to  the  Old  Bailey  with  Lord  Scamp,  and  soon 
contrived  to  follow  them,  unnoticed  by  the  domestics. 
She  could  not  get  into  the  court,  as  the  gallery  was 
already  filled  ;  and  had  been  lingering  about  the  door 
for  upward  of  four  hours,  making  eager  inquiries  from 
those  who  left  the  court,  as  to  the  name  of  the  prisoner 
who  was  being  tried.  She  vehemently  urged  him  to 
accompany  her  direct  to  Bullion  House,  confront  her 
father,  and  demand  reparation  for  the  wrongs  he  had 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  71 

inflicted.  "  I  will  stand  beside  you — I  will  never  leave 
you — let  him  turn  us  both  out  of  his  house  together !" 
continued  the  excited  girl.  "  I  begin  to  loathe  it — to 
feel  indifferent  about  everything  it  contains — except 
rriy  poor,  unoffending,  dying  mother !  Come,  come, 
Henry,  and  play  the  man !"  But  Elliott's  good  sense 
led  him  to  expostulate  with  her,  and  he  did  so  success- 
fully, representing  to  her  the  useless  peril  attending 
such  a  proceeding.  He  forced  her  into  the  coach  that 
was  waiting  for  her — refused  the  purse  she  had  tried 
nearly  fifty  times  to  thrust  into  his  hand — promised  to 
make  a  point  of  writing  to  her  the  next  day  in  such  a 
manner  as  should  be  sure  of  reaching  her,  and  after 
mutually  affectionate  adieus,  he  ordered  the  coachman 
to  drive  off  as  quickly  as  possible  towards  Highbury. 
She  found  Bullion  House  in  a  tumult  on  account  of  her 
absence. 

"  So  your  intended  victim  has  escaped !"  exclaimed 
Miss  Hillary,  suddenly  presenting  herself  before  her 
father,  whom  Lord  Scamp  had  just  left. 

"Ah,  Polly — my  own  Poll — and  is  it  you,  indeed?" 
said  her  father,  evidently  the  worse  of  wine,  approach- 
ing her  unsteadily.  "  Come,  kiss  me,  love ! — where — 
where  have  you  been,  you  little  puss — puss — puss — " 
"  To  Newgate,  sir  /"  replied  his  daughter,  in  a  quick 
stern  tone,  and  retreated  a  step  or  two  from  her  advan- 
cing father. 

"N — n — ewgate  !  New — new — gate!"  he  echoed, 
as  if  the  word  had  suddenly, sobered  him.  "Well — 
Mary — and — what  of  that !"  he  added,  drawing  his 
breath  heavily. 

"  To  think  that  your  blood  flows  in  these  veins  of 
mine  !"  continued  Miss  Hillary,  with  extraordinary 
energy,  extending  her  arms  towards  him.  "  I  call  you 
father — and  yet" — she  shuddered — "  you  are  a  guilty' 
man — you  have  laid  a  snare  for  the  innocent — tremble, 
sir  !  tremble !  Do  you  love  your  daughter  ?  I  tell 
you,  father,  that  if  your  design  had  succeeded,  she 
would  have  lain  dead  in  your  house  within   an  hour 


72  the  merchant's  clerk. 

after  it  was  told  her  !  Oh,  what — what  am  I  saying  ? 
— where  have  I  been  ?"  She  pressed  her  hand  to  her 
forehead ;  her  high  excitement  had  passed  away. 
Her  father  had  recovered  from  the  shock  occasioned 
by  her  abrupt  reappearance.  He  walked  to  the  door, 
and  shut  it. 

**  Sit  down,  Mary,"  said  he,  sternly,  pointing  to  the 
sofa.     She  obeyed  him  in  silence. 

"Now,  girl,  tell  me— are  you  drunk  or  sober? — « 
where  have  you  been? — what  have  you  been  doing?" 
he  inquired,  with  a  furious  air.  She  hid  her  face  in 
her  hands,  and  wept. 

"  You  are  driving  me  mad,  father !"  she  murmured. 

"  Come,  come  !  What! — you're  playing  the  coward 
now,  miss !  Where  is  all  your  bold  spirit  gone  ? 
What !  can't  you  bully  me  any  more  ?  Snivel  on  then, 
and  beg  my  forgiveness  !  What  do  you  mean,  miss," 
said  he,  extending  towards  her  his  clenched  fist,  "  by 
talking  about  this  fellow  Elliott  being — my  victim  ? 
Eh  ?  Tell  me,  you  audacious  hussy  !  you  ungrateful 
vixen !  what  d'ye  mean  ? — say,  what  the  j& — 1  has 
come  to  you?"  She  made  no  answer,  but  continued 
with  her  face  concealed  in  her  hands.  "  Oh — I'm  up 
to  all  this  !  I  see  what  you're  after  !  I  know  you,  young 
dare-devil !  You  think  you  can  bully  me  into  letting 
you   marry   this   brute — this  beggar — this  swindler! 

Ah-ha !  you  don't  know  me  though  !     By ,  but  I 

believe  you  and  he  are  in  league  to  take  my  life  !"  He 
paused,  gasping  with  rage.  His  daughter  remained 
silent.  "  What  has  turned  you  so  against  me  ?"  he 
continued,  in  the  same  violent  tone  and  manner, 
"  Haven't  I  been  a  kind  father  to  you  all  my — " 

"  Oh  yes,  yes,  yes  !  dear  father,  I  know  you  have  !" 
sobbed  Miss  Hillary,  rising  and  throwing  herself  at  his 
feet. 

"  Then  why  are  you  behaving  in  this  strange  way 
to  me  ?"  he  inquired,  somewhat  softening  his  tone. 
'•  Mary,  isn't  your  poor  mother  up  stairs  dying?  and 


THE   MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  "73 

if  I  lose  her  and  you  too,  what's  to  become  of  me  ?" 
Miss  Hillary  wept  bitterly.  "  You'd  better  kill  your 
old  father  outright  at  once  than  kill  him  in  this  slow 
way !  or  send  him  to  a  madhouse,  as  you  surely  will ! 
Come,  Molly — my  own  little  Molly — promise  me  to 
think  no  more  of  this  wretched  fellow  !  Depend  on't 
he'll  be  revenged  on  me  yet,  and  do  me  an  injury  if  he 
can  !  Surely  the  devil  himself  sent  the  man  across 
our  family  peace  !  1  don't  want  you  to  marry  Lord 
Scamp  since  you  don't  like  him — not  1 !  It's  true,  I 
have  longed  this  many  a  year  to  marry  you  to  some 
nobleman — to  see  you  great  and  happy — but — if  you 
can't  fancy  my  Lord  Scamp,  why — I  give  him  up. 
And  if  I  give  Tiim  up,  won't  you  meet  me  halfway,  and 
make  us  all  happy  again  by  giving  up  this  fellow  so 
unworthy  of  you  1  He  comes  from  a  d — d  bad  stock, 
believe  me  !  Remember — his  father  gambled,  and — 
cut  his  throat,"  added  Hillary,  in  a  low  tone,  instinct- 
ively trembling  as  he  recollected  the  effect  produced 
upon  Elliott  by  his  utterance  of  these  words  on  a  for- 
mer occasion.  "  Only  think,  Molly  !  My  daughter, 
with  a  vast  fortune — Scraped  together  during  a  long  life 
by  her  father's  hard  labour — Molly — the  only  thing 
her  father  loves,  excepting  always  your  poor  mother 
— to  fling-  herself  into  the  arms  of  a  common  thief — a 
— a  jail  bird — a  felon — a  fellow  on  his  way  to  the  gal- 
lows !"   . 

"  Father !"  said  Miss  Hillary,  solemnly,  suddenly 
looking  up  into  her  father's  face, "  you  know  that  this 
is  false !  You  know  that  he  is  acquitted — that  he  is 
innocent — you  knew  it  from  the  first — that  the  charge 
wras  false  !" 

Mr.  Hillary,  who  had  imagined  he  was  succeeding 
in  changing  his  daughter's  determination,  was  immeas- 
urably disappointed  and  shocked  at  this  evidence  of 
his  failure.  He  bit  his  lips  violently  and  looked  at  her 
fiercely,  his  countenance  darkening  upon  her  sensibly. 
Scarce  suppressing  a  horrible  execration — turning  a 


D 


74  the  merchant's  clerk. 

deaf  ear  to  all  her  passionate  entreaties  on  behalf  of 
Elliott — he  rose,  forcibly  detached  her  arms,  which 
were  clinging  to  his  knees,  and  rung  the  bell. 

"  Send  Miss  Hillary's  maid  here,"  said  he,  hoarsely. 
The  woman  with  a  frightened  air  soon  made  her  ap- 
pearance. 

''Attend  Miss  Hillary  to  her  room  immediately," 
said  he,  sternly,  and  his  disconsolate  daughter  was  led 
out  of  his  presence  to  spend  a  night  of  sleepless 
agony. 

"On  bed 
Delirious  flung,  sleep  from  her  pillow  flies  ; 
All  night  she  tosses,  nor  the  balmy  power 
In  any  posture  finds  ;  till  the  gray  morn 
Lifts  her  pale  lustre  on  the  paler  wretch 
Exanimate  by  love  :  and  then,  perhaps, 
Exhausted,  nature  sinks  a  while  to  rest, 
Still  interrupted  by  distracted  dreams, 
That  o'er  the  sick  imagination  rise, 
And  in  black  colours  paint  the  mimic  scene !" 

Many  more  such  scenes  as  the  one  above  described 
followed  between  Mr.  Hillary  and  his  daughter.  He 
never  left  her  from  the  moment  he  entered  till  he 
quitted  his  house  on  his  return  to  the  city.  Threats, 
entreaties,  promises — magnificent  promises — all  the 
artillery  of  persuasion  or  coercion  that  he  knew  how 
to  use,  he  brought  to  bear  upon  his  wearied  and  har- 
assed daughter, but  in  vain.  He  suddenly  took  her  with 
him  into  Scotland  ;  and  after  spending  there  a  wretched 
week  or  two,  returned  more  dispirited  than  he  had  left. 
He  hurried  her  to  every  place  of  amusement  he  could 
think  of.  Now  he  would  give  party  after  party,  for- 
getful of  his  poor  wife's  situation  ;  then  let  a  week 
or  longer  elapse  in  dull  and  morose  seclusion.  Once 
he  was  carried  by  his  passion  to  such  a  pitch  of  phrensy, 
that  he  struck  her  on  the  side  of  her  head,  and  severely ! 
nor  manifested  any  signs  of  remorse  when  he  beheld 
her  staggering  under  the  blow.  .But  why  stay  to  par- 
ticularize these  painful  scenes  ?     Was  this  the  way  to 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  75 

put  an  end  to  the  obstinate  infatuation  of  his  daughter  ? 
No,  but  to  increase  and  strengthen  it;  to  add  fuel  to 
the  fire.  Her  womanly  pride,  her  sense  of  justice, 
came — powerful  auxiliaries — to  support  her  love  of  the 
injured  Elliott.  She  bore  his  ill  treatment  at  length 
with  a  kind  of  apathy.  She  had  long  lost  all  respect 
for  her  father,  conscious  as  she  was  that  he  had  acted 
most  atrociously  towards  Elliott;  and  presently,  after 
"some  natural  tears"  for  her  poor  mother,  she  became 
wearied  of  the  monotonous  misery  she  endured  at  Bul- 
lion House,  and  ready  to  fly  from  it. 

Passing  over  an  interval  of  a  month  or  two,  during 
which  she  continued  to  keep  up  some  correspondence 
with  Elliott,  who  never  told  her  the  extreme  misery, 
the  absolute  want  he  was  suffering,  since  her  father 
refused  to  give  him  a  character  such  as  would  procure 
his  admission  to  another  situation,  and  he  was  there- 
fore reduced  to  the  most  precarious  means  possible  of 
procuring  a  livelihood.  Miss  Hillary  overhearing  her 
father  make  arrangements  for  taking  her  on  a  long  visit 
to  the  Continent — where  he  might,  for  all  she  knew, 
leave  her  to  end  her  days  in  some  convent — fled  that 
night  in  desperation  from  Bullion  House,  and  sought 
refuge  in  the  humble  residence  of  an  old  servant  of  her 
father's.  Here  she  lived  for  a  few  days  in  terrified 
seclusion ;  but  she  might  have  spared  her  alarms,  for 
her  father  received  the  news  of  her  flight  with  sullen 
apathy,  merely  exclaiming,  "  Well,  as  she  has  made 
her  bed  she  must  lie  upon  it."  He  made  no  inquiries 
after  her,  nor  attempted  to  induce  her  to  return.  When 
at  length  apprized  of  her  residence,  he  did  not  go  near 
the  house.  He  had  evidently  given  up  the  struggle  in 
despair,  and  felt  indifferent  to  any  fate  that  might  befall 
his  daughter.  He  heard  that  the  banns  of  marriage 
between  her  and  Elliott  were  published  in  the  parish 
church  where  her  new  residence  was  situated,  but  of- 
fered no  opposition  whatever.  He  affixed  his  signa- 
ture when  required  to  the  document  necessary  to  trans- 

d2 


76  the  merchant's  clerk. 

fer  to  her  the  sum  of  money — 600Z. — standing  in  her 
name  in  the  funds,  in  sullen  silence. 

So  this  ill-fated  couple  were  married,  no  one  attend- 
ing at  the  brief  and  cheerless  ceremony  but  an  early 
friend  of  Elliott's  and  the  worthy  couple  from  whose 
house  Mrs.  Elliott  had  been  married. 

Elliott  had  commenced  legal  proceedings  against 
Mr.  Hillary  on  account  of  his  malicious  prosecution. 
He  was  certain  of  success,  and  of  thereby  wringing 
from  his  reluctant  and  wicked  father-in-law  a  very  con- 
siderable sum  of  money— a  little  fortune,  in  his  pres- 
ent circumstances.  With  a  noble  forbearance,  how- 
ever, and  yielding  to  the  entreaties  of  his  wife,  who 
had  not  lost,  in  her  marriage,  the  feelings  of  a  daugh- 
ter towards  her  erring  parent,  he  abandoned  them  ;  his 
solicitor  writing,  at  his  desire,  to  inform  Mr.  Hillary  of 
the  fact  that  his  client  had  determined  to  discontinue 
proceedings,  though  he  had  had  the  certainty  of  suc- 
cess before  him,  and  that  for  his  wife's  sake  he  freely 
forgave  Mr.  Hillary. 

This  letter  was  returned  with  an  insolent  message 
from  Mr.  Hillary,  and  there  the  affair  ended. 

A  few  days  after  her  marriage,  Mrs.  Elliott  received 
the  following  communication  from  Mr.  Jeffreys  : — 

"  Madam, 

"  Mr.  Hillary  has  instructed  me  to  apprize  you,  as  I 
now  do  with  great  pain,  of  his  unalterable  determina- 
tion never  again  to  recognise  you  as  his  daughter,  or 
receive  any  communication,  of  any  description,  from 
either  your  husband  or  yourself,  addressed  either  to 
Mr.  or  Mrs.  Hillary;  whom  your  undutiful  and  un- 
grateful conduct,  he  says,  has  separated  from  you  for 
ever. 

"  He  will  allow  to  be  forwarded  to  any  place  you 
may  direct  whatever  articles  belonging  to  you  may 
yet  remain  at  Bullion  House,  on  your  sending  a  list  of 
them  to  my  office. 

"  Spare  me  the  pain  of  a  personal  interview  on  the 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  77 

matter ;  and  believe  me  when  I  unfeignedly  lament  be- 
ing the  medium  of  communicating  such  intelligence. 
"  I  am,  madam, 

"  Your  humble  servant, 

"  Joxathax  Jeffreys." 

With  a  trembling  hand,  assisted  by  her  husband,  she 
set  down  a  few  articles — books,  dress,  one  or  two 
jewels,  and  her  little  dog  Cato.  Him,  however,  Mr. 
Hillary  had  caused  to  be  destroyed  the  day  after  he 
discovered  her  flight.  The  other  articles  were  sent 
to  her  immediately ;  and  with  a  bitter  tit  of  weeping 
did  she  receive  them,  and  read  the  fate  of  her  merry  lit- 
tle favourite,  who  had  frisked  about  her  to  the  last 
with  sportive  affection,  when  almost  everybody  else 
scowled  at  and  forsook  her.  Thus  closed  for  ever,  as 
she  too  surely  felt,  all  connection  and  communication 
with  her  father  and  mother. 

Elliott  regarded  his  noble-spirited  wife,  and  well  he 
might,  with  a  fondness  bordering  on  idolatry.  The  vast 
sacrifice  she  had  made  for  him  overpowered  him  when- 
ever he  adverted  to  it,  and  inspired  him,  not  only  with 
the  most  tender  and  enthusiastic  affection  and  gratitude, 
but  with  the  most  eager  ambition  to  secure  her,  by  his 
own  efforts,  at  least  a  comfortable  home.  He  engaged  a 
small  but  respectable  lodging  in  the  borough,  to  which 
they  removed  the  day  after  their  marriage  ;  and  after 
making  desperate  exertions,  he  had  the  gratification  of 
obtaining  a  situation  as  clerk  in  a  respectable  mercantile 
house  in  the  city,  and  which  he  had  obtained  through 
the  friendly  but  secret  services  of  one  of  the  members 
of  the  firm  he  had  last  served.  His  superior  qualifica- 
tions secured  him  a  salary  of  90?.  a-year,  with  the 
promise  of  its  increase  if  he  continued  to  give  satis- 
faction. Thus  creditably  settled,  the  troubled  couple 
began  to  breathe  a  little  more  freely ;  and  in  the 
course  of  a  twelvemonth.  Mrs.  Elliott's  poignant  grief 
first  declined  into  melancholy,  which  was  at  length, 
mitigated  into  a  pensive  if  not  cheerful  resignation. 

7* 


78  the  merchant's  clerk. 

She  moved  in  her  little  circumscribed  sphere  as  if  she 
had  never  occupied  one  of  splendour  and  affluence. 
How  happily  passed  the  hours  they  spent  together  in 
the  evening  after  he  had  quitted  the  scene  of  his  daily 
labours,  he  reading  or  playing  on  his  flute,  which  he 
did  very  beautifully,  and  she  busily  employed  with  her 
needle  !  How  they  loved  their  neat  little  parlour,  as 
they  sometimes  involuntarily  compared  it ;  she,  with 
the  spacious  and  splendid  apartments  which  had  wit- 
nessed so  nrmch  of  her  suffering  at  Bullion  House — he, 
with  the  dreadful  cells  of  Newgate  !  And  their  Sun- 
days !  What  sweet  and  calm  repose  they  brought ! 
How  she  loved  to  walk  with  him  after  church  hours 
in  the  fresh  and  breezy  places — the  parks ;  though 
a  pang  occasionally  shot  through  her  heart  when  she 
observed  her  father's  carriage,  he  the  solitary  occupant, 
rolling  leisurely  past  them !  The  carriage  in  which 
she  and  her  little  Cato  had  so  often  driven !  But 
thoughts  such  as  these  seldom  intruded  ;  and  when  they 
did,  only  drove  her  closer  to  her  husband — a  pearl  to 
her,  indeed — if  it  may  be  not  irreverently  spoken — of 
great  price — a  price  she  never  once  regretted  to  have 
paid. 

Ye  fond,  unfortunate  souls  !  what  days  of  darkness 
were  in  store  for  you  ! 

About  eighteen  months  after  their  marriage,  Mrs. 
Elliott,  after  a  lingering  and  dangerous  accouchement, 
gave  birth  to  a  son,  the  little  creature  I  had  seen.  How 
they  consulted  together  about  the  means  of  apprizing 
Mr.  Hillary  of  the  birth  of  his  grandson,  and  faintly 
suggested  to  each  other  the  possibility  of  its  melting 
the  stern  stubborn  resolution  he  had  formed  concern- 
ing them  !  He  heard  of  it,  however,  manifesting  about 
as  much  emotion  as  he  would  on  being  told  by  his 
housekeeper  of  the  kittening  of  his  kitchen  cat !  The 
long  fond  letter  she  had  made  such  an  effort  to  write 
to  him,  and  which  poor  Elliott  had  trudged  all  the  way 
to  Highbury  to  deliver,  with  trembling  hand,  and  beat- 
ing heart,  to  the  porter  at  the  lodge  of  Bullion  House, 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  79 

was  returned  to  them  the  next  morning  by  the  two- 
penny post,  unopened  !  What  delicious  agony  was  it 
to  them  to  look  at,  to  hug  to  their  bosoms,  the  little 
creature  that  had  no  friend,  no  relative  on  earth  but 
them !  How  often  did  his  little  blue  eye  open  surpri- 
sedly  upon  her  as  her  scorching  tear  dropped  upon  his 
tiny  face  ! 

She  had  just  weaned  her  child,  and  was  still  suffer- 
ing from  the  effects  of  nursing,  when  there  happened 
the  first  misfortune  that  had  befallen  them  since  their 
marriage.  Mr.  Elliott  was  one  night  behind  his  usual 
hour  of  reluming  from  the  city,  and  his  anxious  wife's 
suspense  was  terminated  by  the  appearance  of  a  hack- 
ney coach,  from  which  there  stepped  out  a  strange  gen- 
tleman, who  instantly  knocked  at  the  door,  and  returned 
to  assist  another  gentleman  in  lifting  out  the  apparent- 
ly inanimate  figure  of  her  husband.  Pale  as  death,  she 
rushed  down  stairs,  her  child  in  her  arms,  and  was 
saved  from  fainting  only  by  hearing  her  husband's 
voice,  in  a  low  tone,  assuring  her  that  he  was  "  not 
much  hurt" — that  he  had  had  ;t  a  slight  accident."  The 
fact  was,  that  in  attempting  most  imprudently  to  shoot 
across  the  street  between  two  approaching  vehicles,  he 
was  knocked  down  by  the  pole  of  one  of  them,  a  post 
chaise ;  and  when  dGwn,  before  the  postboy  could 
stop,  one  of  the  horses  had  kicked  the  prostrate  pas- 
senger upon  his  right  side.  The  two  humane  gentle- 
man who  had  occompanied  him  home,  did  all  in  their 
power  to  assuage  the  terrors  of  Mrs.  Elliott.  One  of 
them  ran  for  the  medical  man  who  fortunately  lived 
close  at  hand;  and  he  pronounced  the  case  to  be, 
though  a  serious  one,  and  requiring  great  care,  not  at- 
tended with  dangerous  symptoms,  at  least,  at  present. 

His  patient  never  quitted  his  bed  for  three  months  ; 
at  the  end  of  which  period,  his  employers  sent  a  very 
kind  message,  regretting  the  accident  that  had  happened, 
and  still  more,  that  they  felt  compelled  to  fill  up  his 
situation  in  their  house,  as  he  had  been  now  so  long 
absent,  and  was  likely  to  continue  absent  for  a  much 


SO  THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK, 

longer  time :  and  they  at  the  same  time  paid  him  all 
the  salary  that  was  due,  in  respect  of  the  period  during 
which  he  had  been  absent,  and  a  quarter's  salary  be- 
yond it.  Poor  Elliott  was  thrown  by  this  intelligence 
into  a  state  of  deep  despondency,  which  was  increased 
by  his  surgeon's  continuing  to  use  the  language  of  cau- 
tion, and  assuring  him  (disheartening  words  1)  that  he 
must  not  think  of  engaging  in  active  business  for  some 
time  yet  to  come.  It  was  after  a  sleepless  night  that 
he  and  his  wife  stepped  into  a  hackney  coach  and  drove 
to  the  bank  to  sell  out  501.  of  their  precious  store,  in 
order  to  liquidate  some  of  the  heavy  expenses  attend- 
ant on  his  long  illness.  Alas !  what  prospect  was 
there  either  of  replacing  what  they  now  took,  or  of 
preserving  the  remainder  from  similar  diminutions  ?  It 
was  now  that  his  admirable  wife  acted  indeed  the  part 
of  a  guardian  angel;  soothing  by  her  fond  attentions 
his  querulous  and  alarmed  spirit ;  and,  that  she  might, 
do  so,  struggling  hourly  to  conceal  her  own  grievous 
apprehensions,  her  own  despondency.  As  it  may  be 
supposed,  it  had  now  become  necessary  to  practise  the 
closest  economy  in  order  to  keep  themselves  out  of 
debt,  and  to  avoid  the  necessity  of  constantly  drawing 
upon  the  very  moderate  sum  which  yet  stood  in  his 
name  in  the  funds.  How  often,  nevertheless,  did  the 
fond  creature  risk  a  chiding,  and  a  severe  one,  from 
her  husband,  by  secretly  procuring  for  him  some  of  the 
little  delicacies  recommended  by  their  medical  attend- 
ant, and  in  which  no  entreaties  could  ever  prevail  up- 
on her  to  share ! 

Some  time  after  this,  her  husband  recovered  suffi- 
ciently to  be  able  to  walk  out ;  but  being  peremptorily 
prohibited  from  engaging  for  some  time  to  come  in  his 
old  situation,  or  any  one  requiring  similar  efforts,  he  put 
an  advertisement  in  the  newspapers,  offering  to  arrange 
the  most  involved  merchant's  accounts,  &-c,  "  with 
accuracy  and  expedition,"  at  his  own  residence,  and 
on  such  very  moderate  terms  as  soon  brought  him 
several  offers  of  employment.     He  addressed  himself 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  $1 

with  a  natural  but  most  imprudent  eagerness  to  tne 
troublesome  and  even  exhausting  task  he  had  underta- 
ken ;  and  the  consequence  was,  that  he  purchased  the 
opportunity  of  a  month's  labour  by  a,  twelvemonth's  in- 
capacitation for  all  labour !  A  dreadful  blow  this 
was,  and  borne  by  neither  of  them  with  their  former 
equanimity.  Mrs.  Elliott  renewed  her  'hopeless  at- 
tempt to  soften  the  obduracy  of  her  father's  heart. 
She  waited  for  him  in  the  street  at  the  hours  of  his 
quitting  and  returning  to  the  city,  and  attempted  to 
speak  to  him,  but  he  hurried  from  her  as  from  a  com- 
mon street  beggar.  She  wrote  letter  after  letter,  carry- 
ing some  herself,  and  sending  others  by  the  post,  by 
which  latter  medium  all  were  invariably  returned  to 
her !  She  began  to  think  with  horror  on  her  father's 
inexorable  disposition  ;  and  her  prayers  to  Heaven  for 
its  interference  on  her  behalf,  or  at  least  the  faith  that 
inspired  them  became  fainter  and  fainter. 

Mr.  Hillary's  temper  had  become  ten  times  worse 
than  ever  since  his  daughter's  departure,  owing  to  that 
as  well  as  several  other  causes.  Several  of  his  specu- 
lations in  business  proved  to  be  very  unfortunate,  and  to 
entail  harassing  consequences ;  which  kept  him  con- 
stantly in  a  state  of  feverish  irritability.  Poor  Mrs. 
Hillary  continued  still  a  hopeless  paralytic,  deprived 
of  the  powers  both  of  speech  and  motion  :  all  chance, 
therefore,  of  her  precious  intercession  was  for  ever  at 
an  end.  In  vain  did  Mrs.  Elliott  strive  to  interest  sev- 
eral of  her  relatives  in  her  behalf:  they  professed  too 
great  a  dread  of  Mr.  Hillary  to  attempt  interfering  in 
such  a  delicate  and  dangerous  matter ;  and  really  had 
a  very  obvious  interest  in  continuing,  if  not  increasing, 
the  grievous  and  unnatural  estrangement  existing  be- 
tween him  and  his  daughter.  There  was  one  of  them, 
a  Miss  Gubbley,  a  maiden  aunt  or  cousin  of  Mrs. 
Elliott,  that  had  wormed  herself  completely  into  Mr. 
Hillary's  confidence,  and  having  been  once  a  kind  of 
housekeeper  in  the  establishment,  now  reigned  supreme 
at  Bullion  Lodge :  an  artful,  selfish,  vulgar  person,  an 

d3 


82  the  merchant's  clerk. 

object  to  Mrs.  Elliott  of  mingled  terror  and  disgust  - 
this  was  the  being  that, 

"  Toadlike,  sat  squatting  at  the  ear" 

of  her  father,  probably  daily  suggesting  every  hateful 
consideration  that  could  tend  to  widen  the  breach 
already  existing  between  him  and  his  daughter.  This 
creature,  too,  had  poor  Mrs.  Elliott  besieged  with 
passionate  and  humiliating  entreaties,  till  they  were 
suddenly  and  finally  checked  by  a  display  of  such  in- 
tolerable insolence  and  heartlessness  as  determined 
Mrs.  Elliott,  come  what  would,  to  make  no  further 
efforts  in  that  quarter.  She  returned  home,  on  the 
occasion  just  alluded  to,  worn  out  in  body  and  mind. 
A  copious  flood  of  tears  accompanying  her  narration  to 
her  husband  of  what  had  happened,  relieved  her  excite- 
ment ;  she  took  her  child  into  her  arms,  and  his  playful 
little  fingers  unconsciously  touching  the  deep  responsive 
chords  of  a  mother's  heart,  she  forgot,  in  the  ecstasy 
of  the  moment,  as  she  folded  him  to  her  bosom,  all  that 
had  occurred  to  make  her  unhappy  and  add  to  the 
gloom  of  their  darkening  prospects.  Closer  and  closer 
now  became  their  retrenchments,  cutting  off.  every 
source  of  expenditure  that  was  not  absolutely  indis- 
pensable.    None   occasioned    them,    she    told    me,   a 

greater  pang  than  giving  up  their  little  pew  in 

church,  and  betaking  themselves  Sunday  after  Sunday 
to  the  humbler  and  more  appropriate  sittings  provided 
in  the  aisle.  But  was  this  their  communion,  their 
compact  with  poverty,  unfavourable  to  devotion?  No. 
The  serpent  pride  was  crushed,  and  dared  not  lift  his 
bruised  head  to  disturb  or  alarm  !  God  then  drew  near 
to  the  deserted  couple,  "  weary  and  heavy  laden,"  and 
f*  cast  out"  by  their  earthly  father !  Yes,  there  she 
experienced  a  calm,  a  resignation,  a  reality  in  the 
services  and  duties  of  religion,  which  she  had  never 
known  when  sitting  amid  the  trappings  and  ostentation 
of  wealth  in  the  gorgeous  pew  of  her  father  ! 

They  were  obliged  to  seek  a  cheaper  lodging — mod- 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  83 

erate  as  was  the  rent  required  for  those  they  had  so 
long  occupied — where  they  might  practise  a  severer 
economy  than  they  chose  to  exhibit  in  the  presence  of 
those  who  had  known  them  when  such  sacrifices  were 
not  necessary,  and  which  also  had  the  advantage  of 
being  in  the  neighbourhood  of  a  person  who  had  prom- 
ised Elliott  occasional  employment  as  a  collector  of 
rents,  &c,  as  well  as  the  balancing  of  his  books  every 
month.  Long  before  his  health  warranted  did  he  under- 
take these  severe  labours,  driven  to  desperation  by  a 
heavy  and  not  over  reasonable  bill  delivered  him  by  his 
medical  attendant,  and  of  which  he  pressed  for  the 
payment.  With  an  aching  heart  poor  Elliott  sold  out 
sufficient  to  discharge  it,  and  resolved  at  all  hazards  to 
recommence  his  labours  ;  for  there  was  left  only  TO 
or  80Z,  in  the  bank,  and  he  shuddered  when  he  thought 
of  it !  They  had  quitted  this  their  second  lodging  for 
that  in  which  I  found  them  about  three  months  before 
her  first  visit  to  me,  in  order  to  be  near  another  indi- 
vidual, himself  an  accountant,  who  had  promised  to 
employ  Elliott  frequently  as  a  kind  of  deputy  or  fag. 
His  were  the  books  piled  before  poor  Elliott  when  first 
I  saw  him  !  Thus  had  he  been  engaged,  to  the  great 
injury  of  his  health,  for  many  weeks,  his  own  mental 
energy  and  determination  flattering  him  with  a  delusive 
confidence  in  his  physical  vigour ! 

Poor  Mrs,  Elliott  also  had  contrived,  being  not  unac- 
quainted with  ornamental  needlework,  to  obtain  some 
employment  of  that  description.  Heavy  was  her  heart 
as  she  sat  toiling  beside  her  husband,  who  was  busily  en- 
gaged in  such  a  manner  as  would  not  admit  of  their  con- 
versing together,  when  her  thoughts  wandered  over  the 
scenes  of  their  past  history,  and  anticipated  their  gloomy 
prospects.  Was  she  now  paying  the  fearful  penalty  of 
disobedience  I  But  where  was  the  sin  she  had  commit- 
ted in'forming  an  honest  and  ardent  attachment  to  one 
whom  she  was  satisfied  was  every  way  her  equal  save 
in  wealth  I  How  could  her  father  have  a  right  to  dictate 
to  her  heart  who  should  be  an  object  of  her  affections  ? 


84  the  merchant's  clerk. 

To  dispose  of  it  as  of  an  article  of  merchandise  ?  Had 
he  any  right  thus  to  consign  her  to  perpetual  misery  ? 
To  unite  her  to  a  titled  scoundrel  merely  to  gratify  his 
weak  pride  and  ambition  ?  Had  she  not  a  right  to  re- 
sist such  an  attempt  1  The  same  Scripture  that  has 
said,  Children^obcy  your  parents,  has  also  said,  Fathers, 
provoke  not  your  children  to  wrath.  But  had  she  not 
been  too  precipitate,  or  unduly  obstinate  in  adhering  to 
the  man  her  father  abhorred  ?  Ought  anything  to  have 
caused  her  to  fly  from  her  suffering  mother?  Oh,  what 
might  have  been  her  sufferings  !  But  surely  nothing 
could  justify  or  extenuate  the  unrelenting  spirit  which 
actuated  her  father !  And  that  father  she  knew  to  have 
acted  basely,  to  have  played  the  part  of  a  devil  towards 
the  man  whom  he  hated  ;  perhaps,  nay  probably,  he 
was  meditating  some  equally  desperate  scheme  con- 
cerning herself.  She  silently  appealed  to  God  from 
amid  this  conflict  of  her  thoughts  and  feelings,  and 
implored  his  forgiveness  of  her  rash  conduct.  Her 
agonies  were  heightened  by  the  consciousness  that 
there  existed  reasons  for  self-condemnation :  but  she 
thought  of,  she  lopked  at,  her  husband,  and  her  heart 
told  her  that  she  should  act  similarly  were  the  past 
again  to  happen. 

So,  then,  here  was  this  virtuous  unhappy  couple — he 
declining  in  health  just  when  that  health  was  most 
precious  ;  she,  too,  worn  out  with  labour  and  anxiety, 
and  likely,  alas  !  to  bring  another  heir  to  wretchedness 
into  the  world,  for  she  was  considerably  advanced  in 
pregnancy  ;  both  becoming  less  capable  of  the  labour 
which  was  becoming  daily  more  essential,  with  scarcely 
40Z.  to  fall  back  upon  in  the  most  desperate  emergency. 
Such  was  the  dreadful  situation  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Elliott 
soon  after  the  period  of  my  first  introduction  to  them. 
It  was  after  listening  to  one  of  the  most  interesting  and 
melancholy  narratives  that  the  annals  of  human  suffer- 
ing could  supply,  that  I  secretly  resolved  to  take  upon 
myself  the  responsibility  of  appealing  to  Mr.  Hillary 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  83 

in  their  behalf,  hoping  that  for  the  honour  of  humanity 
my  efforts  would  not  be  entirely  unavailing. 

He  had  quitted  Bullion  House  within  a  twelvemonth 
after  his  daughter's  flight,  and  removed  to  a  spacious 
and  splendid  mansion  in  Square,  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  my  residence  ;  and  where — strange  coin- 
cidence!— I  was  requested  to  attend  Mrs.  Hillary,  who 
at  length  seemed  approaching  the  close  of  her  long- 
protracted  sufferings.  Mr.  Hillary  had  become  quite 
an  altered  man  since  the  defection  of  his  daughter. 
Lord  Scamp  had  introduced  him  freely  into  the  society 
of  persons  of  rank  and  station,  who  welcomed  into  their 
circles  the  possessor  of  so  splendid  a  fortune  ;  and  he 
found,  in  the  incessant  excitement  and  amusement  of 
fashionable  society,  a  refuge  from  reflection,  from  the 
"  compunctious  visitings  of  remorse"  which  made  his 
solitude  dreadful  and  insupportable.  I  found  him  just 
such  a  man  as  I  have  already  had  occasion  to  describe 
him ;  a  vain,  vulgar,  selfish,  testy,  overbearing  old 
man  ;  one  of  the  most  difficult  and  dangerous  persons 
on  earth  to  deal  with  in  such  a  negotiation  as  that  I 
had  so  rashly,  but  Heaven  knows  with  the  best  inten- 
tions, undertaken. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Hillary,"  said  I,  entering  the  drawing 
room,  where  he  was  standing  alone,  with  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  at  the  windows  watching  some  disturbance 
in  the  square,  "  I  am  afraid  I  can't  bring  you  any  better 
news  about  Mrs.  Hillary.     She  weakens  hourly  !" 

"  Ah,  poor  creature,  I  see  she  does—indeed  !"  he  re- 
plied, sighing,  quitting  the  window,  and  offering  me  one 
of  the  many  beautiful  chairs  that  stood  in  the  splendid 
apartment.  "  Well,  she  has  been  a  good  wife  to  me, 
I  must  say — a  very  good  wife,  and  I've  always  thought 
and  said  so."  Thrusting  his  hands  into  the  pockets  of 
his  ample  white  waistcoat,  he  walked  up  and  down  the 
room.  "  Well,  poor  soul !  she's  had  all  that  money 
could  get  her,  doctor,  however,  and  she  knows  it — 
that's  a  comfort — but  it  an't  money  can  keep  death  off, 
is  it  r 

8 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK. 


»'  No,  indeed,  Mr.  Hillary  ;  but  it  can  mitigate  some 
of  its  terrors.  What  a  consolation  will  it  be  for  you 
hereafter  to  reflect  that  Mrs.  Hillary  has  had  every- 
thing your  noble  fortune  could  procure  for  her  1" 

"  Ay,  and  no  grudging  neither !  I'd  do  ten  times 
what  I  have  done — what's  money  to  me  ?  Poor  Poll, 
and  she's  going !  We  never  had  a  quarrel  in  our  lives  !" 
he  continued,  in  a  somewhat  subdued  tone.  M  I  shall 
miss  her  when  she  is  gone.  I  shall  indeed.  I  could 
find  many  to  fill  her  place,  if  I  had  a  mind,  I'll  warrant 
me — but  I — I — poor  Poll !" 

*  *  "  Yes,"  I  said,  in  answer  to  some  general  re- 
mark he  had  made,  "  we  medical  men  do  certainly  see 
the  worst  side  of  human  life.  Pain — illness — death — 
are  bad  enough  of  themselves,  but  when  poverty  steps 
in  too — " 

"Ay,  I  dare  say.  Bad  enough  as  you  say — bad 
enough !" 

44 1  have  this  very  day  seen  a  mournful  instance  of 
accumulated  human  misery  ;  poverty,  approaching  star- 
vation, and  illness,  distress  of  mind.  Ah  t  Mr.  Hillary, 
what  a  scene  I  witnessed  yesterday !"  I  continued, 
with  emotion ;  "  a  man  who  is  well  born,  who  has  seen 
better—" 

H  Better  days — ah,  exactly.  Double-refined  misery, 
as  they  would  say  in  the  city.  By-the-way,  what  a 
valuable  charity  that  is  ! — I'm  a  subscriber  to  it — for 
the  relief  of  decayed  tradesmen  !  One  feels  such  a 
pleasure  in  it !  I  dare  say  now — I  do  believe — let  me 
see — 200Z.  would  not  cover  what  I  get  rid  of  one  way 
or  another  in  this  kind  of  way  every  year.  By-the- 
way,  doctor,  I'll  ring  for  tea — you'll  take  a  cup  ?"  I 
nodded  ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  a  splendid  tea  service 
made  its  appearance. 

il  Do  you  know,  doctor,  I've  some  notion  of  being  re- 
membered after  I'm  gone,  and  it  has  often  struck  me 
that  if  I  were  to  leave  what  I  have  to  build  a  hospital, 
or  something  of  that  sort  in  this  part  of  the  town,  it 
wouldn't  be  amiss  " 


THE    MERCHANTS    CLERK.  87 

u  A  noble  ambition,  sir,  indeed.  But,  as  I  was  ob- 
serving, the  poor  people  1  saw  yesterday — such  misery ! 
such  fortitude  !" 

"  Ah.  yes  !  Proper  sort  of  people,  just  the  right  sort 
to  put  into — ahem ! — Hillary's  Hospital.  It  don't  sound 
badly,  does  it  ?" 

"Excellently  well.  But  the  fact  is" — I  observed 
that  he  was  becoming  rather  fidgety,  but  I  was  resolved 
not  to  be  beaten  from  my  point — "  Fm  going,  in  short, 
.Air.  Hillary,  to  take  a  liberty  which  nothing  could  war- 
rant but — " 

"  You're  going  to  beg,  doctor,  now  ant  you  1"  he  in- 
terrupted, briskly  :  li  but  the  fact  is,  my  maxim  has  long 
been  never  to  give  a  farthing  in  charity  that  any  one 
shall  know  of  but  two  people  :  I  and  the  people  I  give 
to.  That's  my  notion  of  true  charity  ;  and  besides,  it 
saves  one  a  vast  deal  of  trouble.  But  if  you  really  think 
— if  it  really  is  a  deserving  case — why — ahem  ! — I 

might  perhaps — Dr.  is    so  well  known  for  his 

charitable  turn — now  an't  this  the  way  you  begin  upon 
all  your  great  patients  ?"  he  continued,  with  an  air  of 
supreme  complacency.  I  bowed  and  smiled,  humour- 
in?  his  vanity.  "  Well,  in  such  a  case — hem  !  hern  ! 
— I  might,  once  in  a  way,  break  in  upon  my  rule, "'and 
he  transferred  his  left  hand  from  his  waistcoat  to  his 
breeches  pocket,  *'  so  there's  a  guinea  for  you.  But 
don't  on  any  account  name  it  to  any  one.  Don't,  doc- 
tor, I  don't  want  to  be  talked  about ;  and  we  people 
that  are  known  do  get  so  many — " 

';  But,  Mr.  Biliary,  surely  I  may  tell  my  poor  friends 
to  whom  your  charity  is  destined  the  name  of  the  gen- 
erous— " 

"  Oh,  av !  Do  as  you  please  for  the  matter  of  that. 
Who  are  'they  1  What  are  they  ?  Where  do  they 
live  ?     I'm  a  governor  of ."     I  trembled. 

M  They  live  at  present  in  street  ;  but  I  doubt, 

poor  things,  whether  they  can  stop  there  much  longer, 
for  their  landlady  is  becoming  very  clamorous — " 

i;  Oh,  the  old  story  !  the  old  story  !     Landlords  are 


88  the  merchant's  clerk. 

generally,  especially  the  smaller  sort,  such  tyrants,  an't 
they  V 

"  Yes,  too  frequently  such  is  the  case  !  But  I  was 
going  to  tell  you  of  these  poor  people.  They  have  not 
been  married  many  years,  and  they  married  very  un- 
fortunately." Mr.  Hillary,  who  had  for  some  time 
been  sitting  down  on  the  sofa,  here  rose  and  walked 
rather  more  quickly  than  he  had  been  walking  before. 
"  Contrary  to  the  wishes  of  their  family,  who  have  for- 
saken them,  and  don't  know  what  their  sufferings  now 
are — how  virtuous — how  patient !  And  they  have  got 
a  child  too,  that  will  soon,  I  fear,  be  crying  for  the  bread 
it  may  not  get."  Mr.  Hillary  was  evidently  becoming 
disturbed.  I  saw  that  a  little  of  the  colour  had  fled  from 
about  his  upper  lip,  but  he  said  nothing,  nor  did  he 
seem  disposed  to  interrupt  me.  "  I'm  sure,  by-the- 
way,"  I  continued,  as  calmly  as  I  could,  "  that  if  I  could 
but  prevail  upon  their  family  to  see  them,  before  it  is 
too  late,  that  explanations  might — " 

"What's  the  name  of  your  friends,  sir?"  said  Mr. 
Hillary,  suddenly  stopping,  and  standing  opposite  to 
me,  with  his  arms  almost  akimbo  and  his  eyes  looking 
keenly  into  mine 

11  Elliott,  sir." 

"  I — I  thought  as  much,  sir !"  he  replied,  dashing  the 
perspiration  from  his  forehead ;  "  I  knew  what  you 
were  driving  at !  D — n  it,  sir — I  see  it  all !  You 
came  here  to  insult  me — you  did,  sir  !"  His  agitation 
increased. 

"  Forgive  me,  Mr.  Hillary ;  I  assure  you — " 

"  No,  sir !  I  won't  hear  you,  sir !  I've  heard  enough, 
sir  *  Too  much,  sir !  You've  said  enough,  sir,  to  show 
me  what  sort  of  a  man  you  are,  sir  !  D — n  it,  sir — 
it's  too  bad  !" 

"  You  mistake  me,  Mr.  Hillary,"  said  I,  calmly. 

"  No  I  don't,  sir,  but  you've  cursedly  mistaken  me, 
sir.  If  you  know  these  people,  and  choose  to  take  up 
their — to — to — patronise,  do,  sir,  d — n  it !  if  you  like, 
and  haven't  anything  better  to  do !" 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  89 

**  Forgive  me,  sir,  if  I  have  hurt  your  feelings  !" 

u  Hurt  my  feelings,  sir !  What  d'ye  mean,  sir  ? 
Every  man  hurts  my  feelings  that  insults  me,  sir  ;  and 
you  have  insulted  me,  sir!" 

"  How,  sir  ?"  I  inquired,  sternly,  in  my  turn. 
"  Oblige  me,  sir,  by  explaining  these  extraordinary 
expressions." 

"  You  know  well  enough  !  I  see  through  it.  But 
if  you — really,  sir — you've  got  a  guinea  of  mine,  sir, 
in  your  pocket.  Consider  it  your  fee  for  this  visit ;  the 
last  I'll  trouble  you  to  pay,  sir !"  he  stuttered,  almost 
unintelligible  with  fury. 

I  threw  his  guinea  upon  the  floor,  as  if  its  touch  were 
pollution.  "  Farewell,  Mr.  Hillary,"  said  I,  deliber- 
ately, drawing  on  my  gloves.  "  May  your  deathbed 
be  as  calm  and  happy  as  that  I  have  this  day  attended 
up  stairs  for  the  last  time." 

He  looked  at  me  earnestly,  as  if  staggered  by  the 
reflections  I  had  suggested,  and  turned  very  pale.  I 
bowed  haughtily,  and  retired.  As  I  drove  home,  my 
heated  fancy  struck  out  a  scheme  for  shaming  or  ter- 
rifying the  old  monster  I  had  quitted  into  something 
like  pity  or  repentance,  by  attacking  and  exposing  him 
in  some  newspaper ;  but  by  the  next  morning  I  per- 
ceived the  many  objections  there  were  to  such  a  course. 
I  need  hardly  say  that.  I  did  not  communicate  to  the 
Elliott's  the  fact  of  my  attempted  intercession  with  Mr. 
Hillary. 

It  was  grievous  to  see  the  desperate  but  unavailing 
struggle  made  by  both  of  them  to  retrieve  their  cir- 
cumstances and  provide  against  the  expensive  and  try- 
ing time  that  was  approaching.  He  was  slaving  at  his 
account  books  from  morning  to  midnight,  scarce  allow- 
ing himself  a  few  minutes  for  his  meals  ;  and  she  had 
become  a  mere  fag  to  a  fashionable  milliner,  under- 
taking all  such  work  as  could  be  done  at  her  own  resi- 
dence, often  sitting  up  half  the  night,  and  yet  earning 
the  merest  trifle.  Then  she  had  also  to  look  after  her 
husband  and  child,  for  they  could  not  arlbrd  to  keep  a 

6* 


90  the  merchant's  clerk. 

regular  attendant.  Several  articles  of  her  husband's 
dress  and  her  own,  and  almost  all  that  belonged  to  the 
child,  she  often  washed  at  night  with  her  own  hands ! 

As  if  these  unfortunate  people  were  not  sufficiently 
afflicted  already — as  if  any  additional  ingredient  in 
their  cup  of  sorrow  were  requisite — symptoms  of  a 
more  grievous  calamity  than  had  yet  befallen  poor 
Elliott  began  to  exhibit  themselves  in  him.  His  severe 
and  incessant  application,  by  day  and  night,  coupled 
with  the  perpetual  agitation  and  excitement  of  his  nerv- 
ous system,  began  to  tell  upon  his  eyesight.  I  found 
him,  on  one  of  my  morning  visits,  labouring  under  great 
excitement ;  and  on  questioning  him,  I  feared  he  had 
but  too  good  reason  for  his  alarm,  as  he  described, 
with  fearful  distinctness,  certain  sensations  and  ap- 
pearances which  infallibly  betokened,  in  my  opinion, 
after  examining  his  eyes,  the  presence  of  incipient 
amaurosis  in  both  eyes.  He  spoke  of  deep-seated  pains 
in  the  orbits — perpetual  sparks  and  flashes  of  light — 
peculiar  haloes  seen  around  the  candle — dimness  of 
sight — and  several  other  symptoms,  which  I  found,  on 
inquiry,  had  been  for  some  time  in  existence,  but  he 
had  never  thought  of  noticing  them  till  they  forced 
themselves  upon  his  startled  attention. 

"  Oh,  my  God !"  he  exclaimed,  clasping  his  hands, 
and  looking  upward,  "  spare  my  sight !  Oh,  spare 
my  sight — or  what  will  become  of  me  1  Beggary 
seems  to  be  my  lot — but  blindness  to  be  added  !"  He 
paused,  and  looked  the  image  of  despair. 

"Undoubtedly  I  should  deceive  you,  Mr.  Elliott," 
said  I,  after  making  several  further  inquiries,  "  if  I 
were  to  say  that  there  was  no  danger  in  your  case. 
Unfortunately,  there  does  exist  ground  for  apprehend- 
ing that,  unless  you  abstain,  and  in  a  great  measure, 
from  so  severely  taxing  your  eyesight  as  you  have  of 
late,  you  will  run  the  risk  of  permanently  injuringsit." 

"  Oh,  doctor !  it  is  easy  to  talk  !"  he  exclaimed, 
with  involuntary  bitterness,  "  of  my  ceasing  to  use  and 
try  my  sight ;  but  how  am  I  to  do  it  ?     How  am  I  to 


THE    MERCHANT  S    CLERK.  91 

live  ?  Tell  me  that !  Will  money  drop  from  the  skies 
into  my  lap,  or  bread  into  the  mouths  of  my  poor  wife 
and  child  ?  What  is  to  become  of  us  ?  Merciful  God  ! 
and  just  at  this  time,  too  !  My  wife  pregnant !" — I 
thanked  God  she  was  not  present — ''  our  last  penny 
almost  slipping  from  our  hands — and  I,  who  should  be 
the  stay  and  support  of  my  family,  becoming  blind  ! 
Oh,  God — oh,  God,  what  frightful  crimes  have  I  com- 
mitted to  be  punished  thus  ?  Would  I  had  been  trans- 
ported or  hanged,"  he  added,  suddenly,  "  when  the  old 
ruffian  threw  me  into  Newgate  !  But" — he  turned 
ghastly  pale — "if  I  were  to  die  now,  what  good  could 
it  do  ?"  At  that  moment  the  slow  heavy  wearied  step 
of  his  wife  was  heard  upon  the  stairs,  and  her  entrance 
put  an  end  to  her  husband's  exclamations.  I  entreated 
him  to  intermit,  at  least  for  a  time,  his  attentions  to 
business,  and  prescribed  some  active  remedies,  and  he 
promised  to  obey  my  instructions.  Mrs.  Elliott  sat 
beside  me  with  a  sad  exhausted  air,  which  touched  me 
almost  to  tears.  What  a  situation — what  a  prospect 
was  hers  !  How  was  she  to  prepare  for  her  coming 
confinement  ?  How  procure  the  most  ordinary  com- 
forts—the necessary  attendance?  Deprived  as  her 
husband  and  child  must  be  for  a  time  of  her  affectionate 
and  vigilant  attentions,  what  was  to  become  of  them  ? 
Who  supply  her  place  ?  Her  countenance  too  plainly 
showed  that  all  these  dreadful  topics  constantly  agi- 
tated her  mind ! 

A  day  or  two  after  this  interview  I  brought  them  the 
intelligence  I  had  seen  in  the  newspapers  of  Mrs.  Hil- 
lary's death,  which  I  communicated  to  them  very  care- 
fully, fearful  of  the  effect  it  might  produce  upon  Mrs. 
Elliott,  in  her  critical  situation.  She  wept  bitterly ; 
but  the  event  had  been  too  long  expected  by  her  to  oc- 
casion any  violent  exhibition  of  grief.  As  they  lay 
awake  that  night  in  melancholy  converse,  it  suddenly 
occurred  to  Mrs.  Elliott  that  the  event  which  had  just 
happened  might  afford  them  a  last  chance  of  regaining 
her  father's  affections,  and  they  determined  to  seize 


92  the  merchant's  clerk. 

the  opportunity  of  appealing  to  his  feelings  when  they 
were  softened  by  his  recent  bereavement.  The  next 
morning  the  wretched  couple  set  out  on  their  dreary 

pilgrimage  to Square — it  being  agreed  that  he 

should  accompany  her  to  within  a  door  or  two  of  her 
father's  house,  and  there  await  the  issue  of  her  visit. 
With  slow  and  trembling  steps,  having  relinquished  his 
arm,  she  approached  the  dreaded  house,  whose  large 
windows  were  closed  from  the  top  to  the  bottom.  The 
sight  of  them  overcame  her ;  and  she  paused  for  a 
moment,  holding  by  the  area  railings. 

What  dark  and  bitter  thoughts  and  recollections 
crowded  in  a  few  seconds  through  her  mind !  Here, 
in  this  great  mansion,  was  her  living — her  tyrannical 
— her  mortally  offended  father ;  here  lay  the  remains  of 
her  poor  good  mother — whom  she  had  fled  from — whose 
last  thoughts  might  perhaps  have  been  about  her  per- 
secuted daughter — and  that  daughter  was  now  trem- 
bling like  a  guilty  thing  before  the  frowning  portals  of 
her  widowed,  and,  it  might  be,  inexorable  father  !  She 
felt  very  faint,  and  beckoning  hastily  to  her  husband, 
he  stepped  forward  to  support  her,  and  led  her  from 
the  door.  After  slowly  walking  round  the  square,  she 
returned,  as  before,  to  the  gloomy  mansion  of  her  father, 
ascended  the  steps,  and  with  a  shaking  hand  pulled  the 
bell. 

"  What  do  you  want,  young  woman  ?"  inquired  a 
servant  from  the  area. 

"  I  wish  to  see  Joseph — is  he  at  home  V  she  re- 
plied, in  so  faint  a  voice,  that  the  only  word  audible  in 
the  area  was  that  of  Joseph,  the  porter,  who  had 
entered  into  her  father's  service  in  that  capacity  two  or 
three  years  before  her  marriage.  In  a  few  minutes 
Joseph  made  his  appearance  at  the  hall  door,  which 
he  softly  opened. 

"  Joseph  ! — Joseph  !  I'm  very  ill,"  she  murmured, 
leaning  against  the  door  post — "  let  me  sit  in  your 
chair  for  a  moment." 

"  Lord  have  mercy  on  me — my  young  mistress !" 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  93 

exclaimed  Joseph,  casting  a  hurried  look  behind  him, 
as  if  terrified  at  being  seen  in  conversation  with  her — 
and  then  hastily  stepping  forward  he  caught  her  in  his 
arms,  for  she  had  fainted.  He  placed  her  in  his  great 
covered  chair,  and  called  one  of  the  female  servants, 
who  brought  up  with  her,  at  his  request,  a  glass  of 
water — taking  the  stranger  to  be  some  relative  or  friend 
of  the  porter's.  He  forced  a  little  into  her  mouth  ; 
the  maid  loosed  her  bonnet  string,  and  after  a  few 
minutes  she  uttered  a  deep  sigh,  and  her  consciousness 
returned. 

"  Don't  hurry  yourself,  miss — ma  am  I  mean,"  stam- 
mered the  porter,  in  a  low  tone  ;  l*  you  can  stay  here 
a  little — I  don't  think  any  one's  stirring  but  us  servants 
— you  see,  ma'am,  though  I  suppose  you  know — my 
poor  mistress — "     She  shook  her  head  and  sobbed. 

"  Yes,  Joseph,  I  know  it !  Did  she — did  she  die 
easily  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Elliott,  in  a  faint  whisper,  grasp- 
ing his  hand. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  he  answered,  in  a  low  tone  ;  "  poor 
lady,  she'd  been  so  long  ailing,  that  no  doubt  death 
wasn't  anything  particular  to  her,  like,  and  so  she 
went  out  at  last  like  the  snuff  of  a  candle,  as  one  might 
say  ;  poor  old  soul !  we'd  none  of  us,  not  my  master 
even,  heard  the  sound  of  her  voice  for  months,  not  to 
say  years  even !" 

"  And  my — my  father,  how  does  he — " 

"  Why  he  takes  on  about  it,  ma'am,  certainly  ;  but, 
you  see,  he's  been  so  long  expecting  of  it!" 

"  Do  you  think,  Joseph,"  said  Mrs.  Elliott,  hardly 
able  to  make  herself  heard,  "  that — that  my  father 
would  be  very — very  angry,  if  he  knew  I  was  here — 
would  he — see  me  ?" 

"Lord,  ma'am!"  exclaimed  the  porter,  alarm  over- 
spreading his  features  ;  "  it's  not  possible  !  You  can't 
think  how  stern  he  is  !  You  should  have  heard  what 
orders  he  gave  us  all  about  keeping  you  out  of  the 
house  !  1  know  'tis  a  dreadful  hard  case,  ma'am,"  he 
continued,  wiping  a  tear  from  his  eye,  "  and  many  and 


94  the  merchant's  clerk. 

many's  the  time  we've  all  cried  in  the  kitchen  about — 
hush !"  he  stopped,  and  looked  towards  the  stairs  ap- 
prehensively ;  "  never  mind,  ma'am,  it's  nobody  !  But 
won't  you  come  down  and  sit  in  the  housekeeper's 
room  !  I'm  sure  the  good  old  soul  will  rather  like  to 
see  you,  and  then,  you  know,  you  can  slip  out  of  the 
area  gate  and  be  gone  in  no  time  !" 

"  No,  Joseph,"  replied  Mrs.  Elliott,  with  as  much 
energy  as  her  weakness  would  admit  of,  "  I  will  wait 
outside  the  street  door  if  you  think  there  is  any  dan- 
ger, while  you  go  and  get  this  letter  taken  up  stairs, 
and  say  I  am  waiting  for  an  answer !"  He  took  the 
letter,  held  it  in  his  hand  hesitatingly,  and  shook  his 
head. 

"  Oh,  take  it,  good  Joseph  !"  said  Mrs.  Elliott,  with 
a  look  that  would  have  softened  a  heart  of  stone  ;  "  it 
is  only  to  ask  for  mourning  for  my  mother !  I  have  not 
money  to  purchase  any !"     His  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  My  poor  dear  young  mistress  !"  he  faltered ;  his  lip 
quivered,  and  he  paused.  u  It's  more  than  my  place  is 
worth  ;  but,  I'll  take  it,  nevertheless — that  I  will,  come 
what  will,  ma'am  !  See  if  I  don't !  You  see,  ma'am," 
dropping  his  voice,  and  looking  towards  the  staircase, 
"it  isn't  so  much  the  old  gentleman,  after  all,  neither, but 
it's — it's  Miss  Gubbley  that  I'm  afraid  of!  It  is  she, 
in  my  mind,  that  keeps  him  so  cruel  hard  against  you ! 
She  has  it  all  her  own  way,  here !  You  should  see 
how  she  orders  us  servants  "about,  ma'am,  and  has  her 
eyes  into  everything  that's  going  on ;  but  I'll  go  and  take 
the  letter  anyhow  ;  and  don't  you  go  out  of  doors,  unless 
you  hear  me  cry  '  hem  !'  on  the  stairs  !"  She  promised 
to  attend  to  this  hint,  as  did  also  the  female  servant 
whom  he  left  with  her,  and  Joseph  disappeared.  The 
mention  of  Miss  Gubbley  excited  the  most  painful 
and  disheartening  thoughts  in  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Elliott. 
Possibly  it  was  now  the  design  of  this  woman  to  strike 
a  grand  blow,  and  force  herself  into  the  place  so  re- 
cently vacated  by  poor  Mrs.  Hillary !  Mrs.  Elliott's 
Jieart  beat  fast,  after  she  had  waited  for  some  minutes 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  95 

in  agonizing  anxiety  and  suspense,  as  she  heard  the 
footsteps  of  Joseph  hastily  descending  the  stairs. 

"  Well,  Joseph,"  she  whispered,  looking  eagerly  at 
him. 

"I  can't  get  to  see  master,  ma'am,  though  I've  tried; 
I  have,  indeed,  ma'am !  I  thought  it  would  be  so ! 
Miss  Gubbley  has  been  giving  it  me,  ma'am :  she 
says  it  will  cost  me  my  place  to  dare  to  do  such  an 
audacious  thing  a^ain — and  I  told  her  you  was  below 
here,  ma'am,  and  she  might  see  you ;  but  she  tossed 
her  head,  and  said  it  was  of  a  piece  with  all  your  other 
shameful  behaviour  to  your  poor,  broken-hearted  father, 
she  did,  ma'am'' — Mrs.  Elliott  began  to  sob  bitterly — 
u  and  she  wouldn't  on  any  account  whatsoever  have  him 
shocked  at  such  a  sad  time  as  this,  and  that  she  knows 
it  would  be  no  use  your  coming" — his  voice  quivered — 
"  and  she  says  as  how" — he  could  hardly  go  on — 
"  you  should  have  thought  of  all  this  long  ago ;  and 
that  only  a  month  ago  she  heard  master  say  it  was  all 
your  own  fault  if  you  come  to  ruin,  and  as  you'd  made 
your  bed  you  must  lie  on  it — her  very  words,  ma'am  ; 
but  she's  sent  you  a  couple  of  guineas,  ma'am,  on  con- 
dition that  you  don't,  on  no  account,  trouble  master 
again ;  and — and,"  he  continued,  his  tears  overflow- 
ing, "I've  been  so  bold  as  to  make  it  three,  ma'am; 
and  I  hope  it's  no  offence,  ma'am,  me  being  but  a  ser 
vant,"  trying  to  force  something,  wrapped  up  in  paper, 
into  the  hand  of  Mrs.  Elliott,  who  had  listened  motion- 
less and  in  dead  silence  to  all  he  had  been  saying. 

"  Joseph !"  at  length  she  exclaimed,  in  a  very  low 
but  distinct  and  solemn  tone,  stretching  out  her  hands, 
"if  you  don't  wish  to  see  me  die — help  me, help  me — to 
my  knees  !"  And  with  his  assistance,  and  that  of  the 
female  servant,  she  sank  gently  down  upon  her  knees 
upon  the  floor,  where  he  partly  supported  her.  She 
slowly  clasped  her  hands  together  upon  her  bosom,  and 
looked  upward  ;  her  eye  was  tearless,  and  an  awful 
expression  settled  upon  her  motionless  features.  Jo- 
seph involuntarily  fell  upon  his  knees  beside  her,  sha- 


96  the  merchant's  clerk. 

king  like  an  aspen  leaf,  his  eyes  fixed  instinctively  upon 
hers,  and  the  sobs  of  several  of  the  servants,  who  had 
stolen  silently  to  the  top  of  the  kitchen  stairs,  to  gaze 
at  this  strange  scene,  were  the  only  sounds  that  were 
audible.  After  having  remained  in  this  position  for 
several  minutes,  she  rose  from  her  knees  slowly  and 
in  silence. 

"When  will  my  mother  be  buried?" 

M  Next    Saturday,"  whispered    Joseph,    "  at    two 
o'clock." 

"  Where  ?" 

"  At  St. 's,  ma'am." 

"  Farewell,  Joseph !  You  have  been  very  kind," 
said  she,  rising  and  moving  slowly  to  the  door. 

"  Won't  you  let  me  get  you  a  little  of  something 
warm,  ma'am  1  You  do  look  so  bad,  ma'am,  so  pale, 
and  I'll  fetch  it  from  down  stairs  in  half  a  minute." 

"  No,  Joseph,  I  am  better !  and  Mr.  Elliott  is  wait- 
ing for  me  at  the  outside." 

"  Poor  gentleman  !"  sobbed  Joseph,  turning  his  head 
aside,  that  he  might  dash  a  tear  from  his  eye.  He 
strove  again  to  force  into  her  hand  the  paper  contain- 
ing the  three  guineas,  but  she  refused. 

"  No,  Joseph,  I  am  very  destitute,  but  yet  Providence 
will  not  let  me  starve.  I  cannot  take  it  from  you ;  hers 
I  will  not,  I  ought  not !" 

With  this  the  door  was  opened ;  and  with  a  firmer 
step  than  she  had  entered  the  house,  she  quitted  it. 
Her  husband,  who  was  standing  anxiously  at  one  or 
two  door's  distance,  rushed  up  to  her,  and  with  tremu- 
lous and  agitated  tone  and  gestures  inquired  the  result 
of  her  application,  and  placing  his  arm  around  her,  for 
he  felt  how  heavily  she  leaned  against  him,  gently  led 
her  towards  home.  He  listened  with  the  calmness  of 
despair  to  her  narrative  of  what  had  taken  place. 
"  Then  there  is  no  hope  for  us  there,"  he  muttered 
through  his  half-closed  lips. 

"But  there  is  hope,  dearest,  with  Him  who  invites 
the  weary  and  the  heavy  laden  ;  who  seems  to  have 


THE  merchant's  clerk.  97 

withdrawn  from  us,  but  ha3  not  forsaken  us,"  replied 
his  wife,  tenderly,  and  with  unwonted  cheerfulness  in 
her  manner.  "  1  feel— I  know — he  tells  me  that  he  will 
not  suffer  us  to  sink  in  the  deep  waters  !  He  heard 
my  prayer,  Henry,  and  he  will  answer  it,  wisely  and 
well !  Let  us  hasten  home,  dearest.  Our  little  Hen- 
ry will  be  uneasy,  and  trouble  Mrs. —."     Elliott 

listened  to  her  in  moody  silence.  His  darkening  fea- 
tures told  not  of  the  peace  and  resignation  Heaven  had 
shed  into  the  troubled  bosom  of  his  wife,  but  too  truly 
betokened  the  gioom  and  despair  within.  He  suspect- 
ed that  his  wife's  reason  was  yielding  to  the  long-con- 
tinued assaults  of  sorrow  ;  and  thought  of  her  approach- 
ing sufferings  with  an  involuntary  shudder,  and  sick- 
ened as  he  entered  the  scene  of  them — his  wretched 
lodging.  She  clasped  their  smiling  child  with  cheer- 
ful affection  to  her  bosom  ;  he  kissed  him — but  cold- 
ly— -absently— as  it  were,  mechanically.  Placing 
upon  his  forehead  the  silk  shade  which  my  wife  had 
sent  to  him,  at  my  request,  the  day  before,  as  well  to 
relieve  his  eyes,  as  to  conceal  their  troubled  expres- 
sion, he  leaned  against  the  table  at  which  he  took  his 
seat,  and  thought  with  perfect  horror  upon  their  circum- 
stances. 

Scarce  20?.  now  remained  of  the  6007.  with  which 
they  were  married  ;  his  wife's  little  earnings  were  to 
be  of  course  for  a  while  suspended  ;  he  was  prohibited, 
at  the  peril  of  blindness,  from  the  only  species  of  em- 
ployment he  could  obtain ;  the  last  ray  of  hope  con- 
cerning Hillary's  reconciliation  was  extinguished; 
and  all  this  when  their  expenses  were  on  the  eve  of 
being  doubled — or  trebled. 

It  was  well  for  Mrs.  Elliott  that  her  husband  had 
placed  that  silk  shade  upon  his  forehead ! 

During  his  absence  the  next  morning  at  the  opthal- 
mic  infirmary,  whither,  at  my  desire,  he  went  twice  a 

week  to  receive  the  advice  of  Mr. ,  the  eminent 

oculist,  I  called  and  seized  the  opportunity  of  placing 
in  Mrs.  Elliott's  hands,  with  unspeakable  satisfaction, 
E  9 


98  the  merchant's  clerk. 

the  sum  of  40Z.,  which  my  good  wife  had  chiefly  col- 
lected among  her  friends ;  and  as  Mrs.  Elliott  read, 
or  rather  attempted  to  read,  for  her  eyes  were  filled 
with  tears,  the  affectionate  note  written  to  her  by  my 
wife,  who  begged  that  she  would  send  her  little  boy  to 
our  house  till  she  should  have  recovered  from  her  con- 
finement, she  clasped  her  hands  together,  and  exclaimed 
— "  Has  not  God  heard  my  prayers  !  Dearest  doctor ! 
Heaven  will  reward  you !  What  news  for  my  poor 
heartbroken  husband  when  he  returns  home  from  the 
infirmary — weary  and  disheartened  !         * 

"  And  now,  doctor,  shall  I  confide  to  you  a  plan  I 
have  formed  ?"  said  Mrs.  Elliott,  looking  earnestly  at 
me.  "  Don't  try  to  persuade  me  against  putting  it  into 
practice  ;  for  my  mind  is  made  up,  and  nothing  can 
turn  me  from  my  purpose."  I  looked  at  her  with  sur- 
prise. "  You  know  we  have  but  this  one  room  and  the 
little  closet — for  what  else  is  it  1 — where  we  sleep  ; 
and  where  must  my  husband  and  child  be  when  I  am 
confined  1  Besides,  we  cannot,  even  with  all  your  no- 
ble kindness  to  us,  afford  to  have  proper — the  most  or- 
dinary attendance."  She  paused — I  listened  anx- 
iously. 

"  So — I've  been  thinking — could  you  not" — she  hes- 
itated, as  if  struggling  with  violent  emotion — "could 
you  not  get  me  admitted" — her  voice  trembled — "  into 
— the  lying-in  hospital?"  I  shook  my  head,  unablo 
at  the  moment  to  find  utterance. 

"  It  has  cost  me  a  struggle — Providence  seems,  how- 
ever, to  have  led  me  to  the  thought !  I  shall  there  be 
no  expense  to  my  husband,  and  shall  have,  I  under- 
stand, excellent  attendance." 

"  My  poor  dear  madam,"  I  faltered,  "  you  must  for- 
give me — but  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  it."  In  spite 
of  my  struggles  the  swelling  tears  at  length  burst  from 
my  laden  eyes.  She  buried  her  face  in  her  handker- 
chief, and  wept  bitterly.  "  My  husband  can  hear  of 
me  every  day,  and,  with  God's  blessing  upon,  us,  per- 
haps in  a  month's   time  we  may  both  meet  in  better 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  99 

health  and  spirits.  And  if — if — if  it  would  not  incon- 
venience Mrs. or  yourself,  to  let  my  little  Henry" 

— she  could  get  no  further,  and  burst  again  into  a  tit  of 
passionate  weeping.  I  promised  her,  in  answer  to  her 
reiterated  entreaties,  that  I  would  immediately  take 
steps  to  ensure  her  an  admission  into  the  lying-in 
hospital  at  any  moment  she  might  require  it. 

"  But,  my  dear  madam,  your  husband — Mr.  Elliott 
— depend  upon  it,  will  never  hear  of  all  this ;  he  will 
never  permit  it,  I  feel  perfectly  certain." 

"Ah,  doctor,  I  know  he  would  not;  but  he  shall 
not  know  anything  about  my  intentions  till  I  am  safely 
lodged  in  the — the  hospital.  I  intend  to  leave  without 
his  knowing  where  I  am  gone,  some  day  this  week  ;  for 
I  feel  satisfied — "  She  paused  and  trembled.  "  When 
he  returns  from  the  infirmary  on  Friday  he  will  find  a 
letter  from  me,  telling  him  all  my  little  scheme,  and 
may  God  incline  him  to  forgive  me  for  what  I  am  doing. 
I  know  he  loves  me,  however,  too  fondly  to  make  me 
unhappy  !" 

The  next  morning  my  wife  accompanied  me  to  their 
lodging,  for  the  purpose  of  taking  home  with  her  little 
Henry.  A  sad  scence  it  was  ;  but  Elliott,  whom  his 
wife  had  easily  satisfied  of  the  prudence  of  thus  dis- 
posing of  the  child  during  the  period  of  her  confine- 
ment, bore  it  manfully.  He  carried  the  child  down  to 
my  carriage,  and  resigned  him  into  the  hands  of  my 
wife  and  a  servant,  after  many  fond  caresses,  with  an 
air  of  melancholy  resolution ;  promising  to  call  daily 
and  see  him  while  on  his  visit  to  my  house.  I  strove  to 
console  him  under  this  temporary  separation  from  his 
child,  and  to  impress  upon  him  the  necessity  of  abso- 
lute quiet  and  repose,  in  order  to  give  due  effect  to 
the  very  active  treatment  under  which  he  had  been 
placed  for  the  complaint  in  his  eyes  ;  this  I  did  in  or- 
der to  prepare  him  for  the  second  stroke  meditated  to 
be  inflicted  upon  him  on  the  ensuing  Friday  by  his 
wife,  and  to  reconcile  him,  by  anticipation  as  it  were, 
to  their  brief  separation.     When  once  the  decisive  step 

b2 


100  THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK. 

had  been  taken,  I  felt  satisfied  that  he  would  speedily 
see  the  propriety  of  it. 

It  was  wonderful  to  see  how  Mrs.  Elliott,  during  the 
interval  between  this  day  and  the  Friday  appointed  for 
her  entrance  into  the  lying-in  hospital,  sustained  her 
spirits.  Her  manner  increased  in  tenderness  towards 
her  husband,  who  evinced  a  corresponding  energy  of 
sympathy  and  affection  towards  her.  His  anxieties 
had  been  to  a  considerable  extent  allayed  by  the  sea- 
sonable addition  to  his  funds  already  spoken  of ;  but 
he  expressed  an  occasional  surprise  at  the  absence  of 
any  preparations  for  the  event  which  both  of  them  be- 
lieved to  be  so  near  at  hand. 

On  the  Friday  morning,  about  half  an  hour  after  her 
husband  had  set  out  for  the  opthalmic  infirmary  as 
usual,  a  hackney  coach  drew  up  to  the  door  of  his 
lodging,  with  a  female  attendant,  sent  by  my  direc- 
tions from  the  lying-in  hospital.  I  also  made  my  ap- 
pearance within  a  few  minutes  of  the  arrival  of  the 
coach :  and  poor  Mrs.  Elliott,  after  having  carefully 
arranged  and  disposed  of  the  few  articles  of  her  own 
apparel  which  she  intended  to  leave  behind  her,  and 
given  the  most  anxious  and  repeated  instructions  to  the 
woman  of  the  house  to  be  attentive  to  Mr.  Elliott  in 
her  absence — sat  down  and  shed  many  tears  as  she 
laid  upon  the  table  a  letter,  carefully  sealed,  and  ad- 
dressed to  her  husband,  containing  the  information  of 
her  departure  and  destination.  When  her  agitation 
had  somewhat  subsided,  she  left  the  room — perhaps, 
she  felt,/or  ever — entered  into  the  coach,  and  was  soon 
safely  lodged  in  the  lying-in  hospital. 

The  letter  to  her  husband  was  as  follows — for  the 
melancholy  events  which  will  be  presently  narrated, 
brought  this  with  other  documents  into  my  possession. 

"  My  Sweet  Love, 
"  The  hour  of  my  agony  is  approaching ;  and  Provi- 
dence has  pointed  out  to  me  a  place  of  refuge.     I  can- 
not, dearest  Henry — I  cannot  think  of  adding  to  you/ 


THE    MERCHANT^    CLERK.  101 

sufferings  bv  the  sight  of  mine  !  When  all  is  over — 
as  I  trust  it  will  be  soon,  and  happily — then  we  shall 
be  reunited,  and  God  grant  us  happier  days!  Oh,  do 
not  be  grieved  or  angry,  Henry,  at  the  step  I  am  taking. 
I  have  done  it  for  the  best — it  will  be  for  the  best,  de- 
pend upon  it.     Dr. will  tell  you  how  skilfully  and 

kindly  they  treat  their  patients  at  the  lying-in  hospital 
to  which  I  am  going.  Oh,  Henry  !  you  are  the  delight 
of  my  soul !  The  more  grief  and  bitterness  we  have 
seen  together,  surely  the  more  do  we  love  one  another 
Oh  hoxc  Hove  you !  How  I  prayed  in  the  night  while 
you,  dearest,  were  sleeping,  that  the  Almighty  would 
bless  you  and  our  little  Harry,  and  be  merciful  to  me, 
for  your  sakes,  and  bring  us  all  together  again  !  I  shall 
pray  for  you,  my  love — my  own  love! — ever}'  hour  that 
we  are  away!  Bear  up  a  little  longer,  Henry!  God 
has  not  deserted  us — he  will  not — he  cannot  if  we  do 
not  desert  him.  I  leave  you,  dearest,  my  Bible  and 
prayer  book — oh,  do  read  them  !     Kiss  my  little  Harry 

in   my  name,  every  day.     How   kind   are   Dr. 

and  Mrs. !     Go  out  and  enjoy  the  fresh  air,  and 

do  not  sit  fretting  at  home,  love ;  nor  try  your  eyes  with 
reading  or  writing  till  I  come  back.  I  can  hardly  lay 
by  my  pen,  but  the  coach  is  come  for  me,  and  I  must 
tear  myself  away.  Farewell,  then,  my  dear,  dear, 
darling  Henry  ;  but  only  for  a  little  while. 

"Your  doting  wife, 

"  Mart." 

"  P.S. — The  socks  I  have  been  knitting  for  Harry 
are  in  the  drawer  near  the  window.     You  had  better 

take  them  to  Dr. 's  to-morrow,  as  I  forgot  to  send 

them  with  Harry  in  the  bustle  of  his  going,  and  he 

will  want  them.     Dr. says  you  can  come  and  see 

me  every  day  before  I  am  taken  ill.     Do  come." 

I  called  in  the  evening,  according  to  the  promise  I 
had  made  to  Mrs.  Elliott,  on  her  husband,  to  see  how 
he  bore  the  discovery  of  his  wife's  sudden  departure. 

9* 


102  THE    MERCHANT^    CLERK. 

"  How  is  Mr.  Elliott  ?"  I  inquired  of  the  woman  of 
the  house,  who  opened  the  door.     M  Is  he  at  home  ? 

"  Why,  yes — but  he's  in  a  sad  way,  sir,  indeed,  about 
Mrs.  Elliott's  going.     He's  eaten  nothing  all  day." 

He  was  sitting  at  a  table  when  I  entered,  with  a  sol- 
itary candle,  and  Mrs.  Elliott's  letter  lying  before  him. 

"  Oh !  doctor,  is  not  this  worse  than  death  V  he  ex- 
claimed.   "  Am  I  not  leftralone  to  be  the  prey  of  Satan  ?" 

"  Come,  come,  Mr.  Elliott,  moderate  your  feelings  ! 
Learn  the  lesson  your  incomparable  wife  has  taught 
you — patience  and  resignation." 

"  It  is  a  heavenly  lesson.  But  can  a  fiend  learn  it  ?" 
he  replied,  vehemently,  in  a  tone  and  with  an  air  that 
quite  startled  me.  "  Here  I  am  left  alone  by  God  and 
man  to  be  the  sport  of  devils,  and  I  am  !  What  curse 
is  there  that  has  not  fallen,  or  is  falling  upon  me  ?  I 
feel  assured,"  he  continued,  gloomily,  "  that  my  Mary 
is  taken  from  me  for  ever.  Oh,  do  not  tell  me  other- 
wise. I  feel — I  know  it !  I  have  brought  ruin  upon  her ! 
I  have  brought  her  to  beggary  by  an  insane,  a  wicked 
attachment !  The  curses  of  disobedience  to  parents 
are  fully  upon  both  of  us  !  Yet  our  misery  might  have 
touched  any  heart  except  that  of  her  fiendish  father. 
Ah !  he  buries  her  mother  to-morrow  !  To-morrow, 
then,  I  will  be  there!  The  earth  shall  not  fall  upon 
her  before  he  looks  upon  me !  How  I  will  make 
the  old  man  shake  beside  the  grave  he  must  soon  drop 
into!"  He  drew  a  long  breath.  "Let  him  curse 
me  ! — curse  her — curse  us  both  ! — curse  our  child  ! 
There  and  then — " 

"  The  curse  causeless  shall  not  come,'"  I  interrupted. 

*  Ay,  causeless  !  That's  the  thing !  Causeless  !" 
He  paused.  "  Forgive  me,"  he  added,  after  a  heavy 
sigh,  resuming  his  usual  manner ;  "  doctor,  I've  been 
raving,  and  can  you  wonder  at  it  ?  Poor  Mary's  letter 
(here  it  is)  has  almost  killed  me  !  I  have  been  to  the 
place  where  she  is,  but  I  dared  not  go  in  to  see  her. 
Oh,  doctor  !  will  she  be  taken  care  of?"  suddenly  seiz- 
ing my  hand  with  convulsive  energy. 


the  merchant's  clerk.  103 

11  The  very  greatest  care  will  be  taken  of  her — the 
greatest  skill  in  London  will  be  instantly  at  her  com- 
mand in  case  of  the  slightest  necessity  for  it— as  well 
as  every  possible  comfort  and  convenience  that  her  sit- 
uation can  require.     If  it  will  be  any  consolation  to 
you,  I  assure  you  I  intend  visiting  her  myself  every 
day."     And  by  these  means  I  at  length  succeeded  in  re- 
storing something  like  calmness  to  him.     The  excite- 
ment occasioned  by  his  unexpected  discovery  of  his 
wife's  absence,  and  its  touching  reason,  had  been  aggra- 
vated by  the  unfavourable  opinion  concerning  his  sight 
which  had  been  that  morning  expressed — alas,  I  feared, 
but  too  justly — by  the  able  and  experienced  oculist 
under  whose  care  he  was  placed.     He  had  in  much 
alarm  heard  Mr. ask  him   several  questions  re- 
specting peculiar  and  secret  symptoms  and  sensations 
about  his  eyes,  which  he  was  forced  to  answer  in  the 
affirmative  ;  and  the  alarming  effect  of  these  inquiries 

was  not  dissipated  by  the  cautious  replies  of  Mr.  

to  his  questions  as  to  the  chances  of  ultimate  recovery. 
I  assured  him  that  nothing  on  earth  could  so  effectually 
serve  him  as  the  cultivation  of  calm  and  composed  hab- 
its >of  mind  ;  for  that  the  affection  of  his  eyes  depended 
almost  entirely  upon  the  condition  of  his  nervous  sys- 
tem. I  got  him  to  promise  me  that  he  would  abandon 
his  wild  and  useless  purpose  of  attending  the  funeral 
of  Mrs.  Hillary — said  I  would  call  upon  him,  accom- 
panied by  his  little  son,  about  noon  the  next  day,  and 
also  bring  him  tidings  concerning  Mrs.  Elliott. 

I  was  as  good  as  my  word ;  but  not  he.  The  wo- 
man of  the  house  told  me  that  he  had  left  home  about 
twelve  o'clock,  and  did  not  say  when  he  would  return. 

He  had  gone  to  St. 's  church,  I  afterward  learned 

from  him.  He  watched  the  funeral  procession  into  the 
church,  and  placed  himself  in  a  pew  which  commanded 
a  near  view  of  that  occupied  by  the  chief  mourner, 
Mr.  Hillary  ;  who,  however,  never  once  raised  his 
head  from  the  handkerchief  in  which  his  countenance 
was  buried.     When  the  body  was  borne  to  the  grave, 


104  the  merchant's  clerk. 

Elliott  followed,  and  took  his  place  beside  the  grave  as 
near  Mr.  Hillary  as  the  attendants  and  the  crowd 
would  admit  of.  He  several  times  formed  the  deter- 
mination to  interrupt  the  service  by  a  solemn  and  public 
appeal  to  Mr.  Hillary  on  the  subject  of  his  deserted 
daughter — but  his  tongue  failed  him,  his  feelings  over- 
powered him ;  and  he  staggered  from  where  he  stood 
to  an  adjoining  tombstone,  which  he  leaned  against  till 
the  brief  and  solemn  scene  was  concluded,  and  the 
mourners  began  to  return.  Once  more,  with  desperate 
purpose,  he  approached  the  procession,  and  came  up  to 
Mr.  Hillary  just  as  he  was  being  assisted  into  the  coach. 

"  Look  at  me,  sir,"  said  he,  suddenly  tapping  Mr. 
Hillary  upon  the  shoulder.  The  old  man  seemed  par- 
alyzed for  a  moment,  and  stared  at  him  as  if  he  did 
not  know  the  strange  intruder. 

"  My  name  is  Elliott,  sir  ;  your  forsaken  daughter 
is  my  heartbroken,  starving  wife  !  do  you  relent,  sir?" 

"Elliott!  Keep  him  away— keep  him  away,  for 
God's  sake  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Hillary,  his  face  full  of  dis- 
gust and  horror  ;  and  the  attendants  violently  dragged 
the  intruder  from  the  spot  where  he  was  standing, 
and  kept  him  at  a  distance  till  the  coach  containing 
Mr.  Hillary  had  driven  off.  Elliott  then  returned  home, 
which  he  reached  about  an  hour  after  I  had  called. 
He  paid  me  a  visit  in  the  evening,  and  I  was  glad  to 
see  him  so  much  calmer  than  I  had  expected.  He 
apologized  with  much  earnestness  for  his  breach  of 
faith.  He  said  he  had  found  it  impossible  to  resist  the 
impulse  which  led  him,  in  spite  of  all  he  had  said  over 
night,  to  attend  the  funeral ;  for  he  had  persuaded  him- 
self of  the  more  than  possibility  that  his  sudden  and 
startling  appearance  at  so  solemn  a  moment  might  effect 
an  alteration  in  Mr.  Hillary's  feelings  towards  him. 
He  gave  me  a  full  account  of  what  had  happened,  and 
assured  me  with  a  melancholy  air  that  he  had  now 
satisfied  himself — had  nothing  to  hope  for  further — 
nothing  to  disturb  him — and  he  would  attend  to  my  in- 
junctions and  those  of  his  surgical  adviser  at  the  in- 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  105 

firmary.  He  told  me  that  he  had  seen  Mrs.  Elliott 
about  an  hour  before,  and  had  left  her  in  comparatively 
good  spirits ;  but  the  people  of  the  hospital  had  told 
him  that  her  confinement  was  hourly  expected. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  he,  and  sighed  profoundly,  "  what 
effect  her  death  would  have  upon  Mr.  Hillary?  Would 
he  cast  off  her  children,  as  he  had  cast  her  off?  Would 
his  hatred  follow  her  into  the  grave  ?  Now  what  should 
you  say,  doctor  ?" 

The  matter-of-fact,  not  to  say  indifferent  air,  with 
winch  this  very  grave  question  was  put,  not  a  little 
surprised  me.  "Why,  he  must  be  obdurate  indeed  if 
such  were  to  be  the  case,"  I  answered.  "  I  am  in 
hopes,  however,  that,  in  spite  of  all  that  has  happened, 
he  will  ere  long  be  brought  to  a  sense  of  his  guilt  and 
cruelty  in  so  long  defying  the  dictates  of  conscience — 
the  voice  of  nature.  When  he  finds  himself  alone — " 
Elliott  shook  his  head. 

"  It  must  be  a  thundering  blow,  doctor,  that  would 
make  his  iron  heart  feel — and — that  blow" — he  sighed 
— "  may  come  much  sooner  it  may  be — "  He  shud- 
dered, and  looked  at  me  with  a  wild  air  of  apprehen- 
sion. 

"  Let  us  hope  for  the  best,  however,  Mr.  Elliott ! 
Rely  upon  it,  the  present  calmness  of  your  inestimable 
wife  affords  grounds  for  the  happiest  expectations  con- 
cerning the  approaching — " 

"  Ah !  I  hope  you  may  not  be  mistaken  !  Her  for- 
mer accouchement  was  a  long  and  dangerous  one." 

"  Perhaps  the  very  reason  why  her  present  may  be 
an  easy  one !"     He  looked  at  me  mournfully. 

"  And  suppose  it  to  be  so — what  a  home  has  the 
poor  creature  to  return  to  after  her  suffering!  Is  not 
that  a  dreary  prospect  ?" 

It  was  growing  late,  however ;  and  presently  taking 
an  affectionate  leave  of  his  son,  who  had  been  sitting 
all  the  while  on  his  knee  overpowered  with  drowsi- 
ness, he  left. 

Mrs.  Elliott  was  taken  ill  on  Sunday  about  midnight; 
e  3 


106  THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK, 

and  after  a  somewhat  severe  and  protracted  labour  was 
delivered  on  Monday  evening  of  a  child  that  died  a 
few  minutes  after  its  birth.  Having  directed  the  peo- 
ple at  the  hospital  to  summon  me  directly  Mrs.  Elliott 
was  taken  ill,  I  was  in  attendance  upon  her  within  an 
hour  after  her  illness  had  commenced.  I  sent  a  mes- 
senger on  Monday  morning  to  Mr.  Elliott,  according 
to  the  promise  I  had  given  him  immediately  to  send 
him  the  earliest  information,  with  an  entreaty  that  he 
would  remain  at  home  all  day  to  be  in  readiness  to 
receive  a  visit  from  me.  He  came  down,  however,  to 
the  hospital  almost  immediately  after  receiving  my 
message ;  and  walked  to  and  fro  before  the  institution, 
making  anxious  inquiries  every  ten  minutes  or  quarter 
of  an  hoiu;  how  his  wife  went  on,  and  received  ready 
and  often  encouraging  answers.  When  I  quitted  her 
for  the  night,  about  an  hour  after  her^delivery,  leaving 
her  much  exhausted,  but,  as  I  too  confidently  supposed, 
out  of  danger,  I  earnestly  entreated  Mr.  Elliott,  who 
continued  before  the  institution  gates  in  a  state  of  the 
highest  excitement,  to  return  home,  but  in  vain  ;  and 
I  left  him  with  expressions  of  severe  displeasure,  as- 
suring him  that  his  conduct  was  absurd  and  useless — 
nay,  criminally  dangerous  to  himself.  "  What  will  be- 
come of  your  sight,  Mr.  Elliott — pray  think  of  that ! 
— if  you  will  persist  in  working  yourself  up  to  this 
dreadful  pitch  of  nervous  excitement  ?  I  do  assure  you 
that  you  are  doing  yourself  every  hour  mischief  which 
— which  it  may  require  months,  if  not  years,  to  remedy ; 
and  is  it  kind  to  her  you  love — to  those  you  ought  to 
consult — whose  interests  are  dependant  upon  yourself 
— thus  to  throw  away  the  chances  of  recovery  ?  Pray, 
Mr.  Elliott,  listen,  listen  to  reason,  and  return  home !" 
He  made  me  no  reply,  but  wept,  and  I  left,  hoping  that 
what  I  had  said  would  soon  produce  the  desired  effect. 
About  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  I  was  awaked  by 
a  violent  ringing  of  the  bell  and  knocking  at  the  door ; 
and  on  hastily  looking  out  of  the  bedroom  window, 
there  was  Mr.  Elliott. 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  107 

';  What  is  the  matter,  there  V  I  inquired.     "  la  it 
you,  Mr.  Elliot  ?" 

M  Oh,  doctor,  doctor — for  God's  sake  come  !  Mv 
wife,  my  wife  !  She's  dying! — they  have  told  me  so  ! 
Come,  doctor,  oh  come  !"'  Though  I  had  been  exceed- 
ingly fatigued  with  the  labours  of  the  preceding  day, 
this  startling  summons  soon  dissipated  my  drowsiness, 
and  in  less  than  live  minutes  I  was  by  his  side.  We 
ran  almost  all  the  way  to  the  nearest  coach  stand  :  imd 
on  reaching  the  hospital,  found  that  there  existed  but 
too  much  ground  for  apprehension ;  for  about  two 
o'clock  very  alarming  symptoms  of  profuse  haemorrhage 
made  their  appearance  ;  and  when  I  reached  her  bed- 
side, a  little  after  four  o'clock,  I  saw,  in  common  with 
the  experienced  resident  accoucheur,  who  was  also 
present,  that  her  life  was  indeed  trembling  in  the  bal- 
ance. While  I  sat  watching,  with  feelings  of  melan- 
choly interest  and  alarm,  her  snowy  inanimate  counte- 
nance, a  tap  on  my  shoulder  from  one  of  the  female  at- 
tendants attracted  my  eye  to  the  door,  where  the  chief 
matron  of  the  establishment  was  standing.  She  beck- 
oned me  out  of  the  room ;  and  I  noiselessly  stepped 
out  after  her. 

"  The  husband  of  this  poor  lady,"  said  Mrs. ,*'  is 

in  a  dreadful  state,  doctor,  in  the  street.  The  porter 
has  sent  up  word  that  he  fears  the  gentleman  is  going 
mad,  and  will  be  attempting  to  break  open  the  gates  ; 
that  he  insists  upon  being  shown  at  once  into  his  wife's 
room,  or  at  least  within  the  house  !  Pray  oblige  me, 
doctor,  by  going  down  and  trying  to  pacify  him  !  This 
will  never  do,  you  know — the  other  patients — "  I 
hastened  down  stairs,  and  stepped  quickly  across  the 
yard.  My  heart  yearned  towards  the  poor  distracted 
being  who  stood  outside  the  iron  gates,  with  his  arms 
stretched  towards  me  through  the  bars. 

"  Oh,  say,  is  she   alive  ?     Is  she  alive  ?"  he  cried, 
with  a  lamentable  voice. 

"She  is,  Mr.  Elliott — but  reallv — n 


108  the  merchant's  clerk. 

"  Oh,  is  she  alive  ?  Are  you  telling  me  truly  ?  Is 
she  indeed  alive  !* 

"Yes,  yes,  Mr.  Elliott:  but  if  you  don't  cease  to 
make  such  a  dreadful  disturbance,  your  voice  may 
reach  her  ear,  and  that  would  be  instant  death — indeed 
it  would." 

"  I  will  I  I  will — but  is  she  indeed  alive  ?  Don't 
deceive  me  !" 

|*  This  is  the  way  he's  been  going  on  all  night,'* 
whispered  the  watchman,  who  had  just  stepped  up. 

"  Mr.  Elliott,  I  tell  you,  truly,  in  the  name  of  God, 
your  wife  is  living — -and  I  have  not  given  up  hope  of 
her  recovery." 

"  Oh,  Mary  !  Mary  !  Mary  !  Oh,  come  to  me,  my 
Mary  !     You  said  that  you  would  return  to  me  !" 

'*  Hadn't  I  better  take  him  away,  sir  ?"  said  the 
watchman.  "  The  porter  says  he'll  be  awakening  all 
the  women  in  the  hospital — shall  I  V9 

11  Let  me  stay — let  me  stay  !  I'll  give  you  all  I  have 
in  the  world !  I'll  give  you  forty  pounds — I  will,  I  will," 
cried  the  unfortunate  husband,  clinging  to  the  bars, 
and  looking  imploringly  at  me. 

'*  Do  not  interfere — do  not  touch  him,  sir,"  said  I  to 
the  watchman. 

"Thank  you!  God  bless  you!"  gasped  the  wretched 
sufferer,  extending  his  hands  towards  mine,  and  wring- 
ing them  convulsively  ;  then  turning  to  the  watchman, 
he  added,  in  a  lower  tone,  the  most  piteous  I  ever 
heard,  "Don't  take  me  away!  My  wife  is  here; 
she's  dying — I  can't  go  away — but  I'll  not  make  any 
more  noise  !  Hush!  hush !  there  is  some  one  coming!" 
A  person  approached  from  within  the  building,  and 
whispering  a  few  hurried  words  in  my  ear,  retired. 
"Mr.  Elliott,  shake  hands  with  me,"  said  I,  "Mrs. 
Elliott  is  reviving  !  I  told  you  I  had  hope  !  The  ac- 
coucheur has  this  instant  sent  me  word  that  he  thinks 
the  case  has  taken  a  favourable  turn."  He  sank  down 
suddenly  on  his  knees  in  silence ;  then  grasped  my 
hands  through  the  bars,  and  shook  them  convulsively. 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  109 

He  then,  in  the  fervour  of  his  frantic  feeling,  turned  to 
the  watchman,  grasped  his  hands,  and  shook  them. 

"  Hush  !  hush  !"  he  gasped — "  don't  speak — it  will 
disturb  her  !  A  single  sound  may  kill  her.  Ah" — 
he  looked  with  agonized  apprehension  at  the  mail  coach 
which  that  moment  rattled  rapidly  and  loudly  by.  At 
length  he  became  so  much  calmer,  that  after  pledging 
myself  to  return  to  him  shortly,  especially  if  any  un- 
favourable change  should  take  place,  I  withdrew,  and 
repaired  to  the  chamber  where  lay  the  poor  uncon- 
scious creature — the  subject  of  her  husband's  wild  and 
dreadful  anxieties.  I  found  that  I  had  not  been  misinr 
formed  ;  and  though  Mrs.  Elliott  lay  in  the  most  pre- 
carious situation  possible,  with  no  sign  of  life  in  her 
pallid  countenance,  and  no  pulse  discernible  at  her 
wrist,  we  had  reason  for  believing  that  a  favourable 
change  had  taken  place.  After  remaining  in  silence 
by  her  side  for  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  during  which 
she  seemed  asleep,  I  took  my  departure,  and  conveyed 
the  delightful  intelligence  to  the  poor  sufferer  without, 
that  his  hopes  were  justified  by  the  situation  in  which 
I  had  left  my  sweet  patient.  I  succeeded  in  persua- 
ding him  to  accompany  me  home,  and  restoring  him  to 
a  little  composure  :  but  the  instant  that  he  had  swal- 
lowed a  hasty  cup  of  coffee,  without  waiting  even  to 
see  his  little  boy,  who  was  being  dressed  to  come 
down  as  usual  to  breakfast,  he  left  the  house  and  re- 
turned to  the  hospital,  where  I  found  him,  as  before, 
on  driving  up  about  twelve  o'clock,  but  walking  calmly 
to  and  fro  before  the  gates.  What  anguish  was  writ- 
ten in  his  features  !  But  a  smile  passed  over  them — 
a  joyful  air,  as  he  told  me  before  I  could  quit  my  car- 
riage, that  all  was  still  going  on  well.  It  was  so,  I  ascer- 
tained; and  on  returning  from  the  hospital,  I  almost 
forced  him  into  my  carriage,  and  drove  off  to  his  lodg- 
ing, where  1  staid  till  he  had  got  into  bed,  and  had 
solemnly  promised  me  to  remain  there  till  I  called  in 
the  evening. 

For  three  days  Mrs.  Elliott  continued  in  the   most 

10 


110  THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERfc. 

critical  circumstances  ;  during  which  her  husband  was 
almost  every  other  hour  at  the  hospital,  and  at  length 
so  wearied  every  one  with  his  anxious  and  incessant 
inquiries,  that  they  would  hardly  give  him  civil  an- 
swers any  longer.  Had  L  not  twice  bled  him  with  my 
own  hand,  and  myself  administered  to  him  soothing 
and  lowering  medicines,  he  would  certainly,  I  think, 
have  gone  raving  mad.  On  the  fifth  day  Mrs.  Elliott 
was  pronounced  out  of  danger,  but  continued,  of  course, 
in  a  very  exhausted  state.  Her  first  inquiries  were 
about  her  husband,  then  her  little  Henry :  and  on  re- 
ceiving a  satisfactory  answer,  a  sweet  sad  smile  stole 
over  her  features,  and  her  feeble  fingers  gently  com- 
pressed mine.  Before  I  quitted  her,  she  asked  whether 
her  husband  might  be  permitted  to  see  her.  I  of  course 
answered  in  the  negative.  A  tear  stole  down  her 
cheek,  but  she  did  not  attempt  to  utter  a  syllable. 

The  pressure  of  professional  engagements  did  not 
admit  of  my  seeing  Mr.  Elliott  more  than  once  or  twice 
during  the  next  week.  I  frequently  heard  of  him,  how- 
ever, at  the  hospital,  where  he  called  constantly  three 
times  a  day,  but  had  not  yet  been  permitted  to  see  Mrs. 
Elliott,  who  was  considered,  and  in  my  opinion  justly, 
unequal  to  the  excitement  of  such  an  interview. 

The  dreadful  mental  agony  in  which  he  had  spent 
the  last  fortnight,  was  calculated  to  produce  the  most 
fatal  effects  upon  his  eyesight  ;  of  which,  indeed,  he 
seemed  himself  but  too  conscious,  for  every  symptom 
of  which  he  had  complained  was  most  fearfully  aggra- 
vated. Nevertheless,  I  could  not  prevail  upon  him — at 
least,  he  said,  for  the  present — to  continue  his  visits 
to  eye  infirmary.  He  said,  with  a  melancholy  air,  that 
he  had  too  many,  and  very  different  matters  to  attend 
to — and  he  must  postpone,  for  the  present,  all  attention 
to  his  own  complaints.  Alas  !  he  had  many  other  sub- 
jects of  anxiety  than  his  own  ailments !  Supposing 
his  poor  wife  to  be  restored  to  him,  even  in  a  moderate 
degree  of  strength  and  convalescence — what  prospect 
was  before  them  ?     What  means  remained  of  obtaining 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  Ill 

a  livelihood  ?  What  chance  was  there  of  her  inexora- 
ble old  father  changing  his  fell  purpose  ?  Was  his 
wife  then  to  quit  the  scene  of  her  almost  mortal  suffer- 
ings, only  to  perish  before  his  eyes — of  want  ?  And 
her  father  wallowing  in  wealth — the  thought  was  hor- 
rible !  Elliott  sat  at  home  alone,  thinking  of  these 
things,  and  shuddered  ;  he  quitted  his  home,  and  wan- 
dered through  the  streets  with  vacant  eye  and  blighted 
heart.  He  wander eth  abroad  for  bread,  saying  where 
is  it  ?  He  knowcth  that  the  day  of  darkness  is  ready 
at  his  hand.* 

Friday.  This  morning  my  wife  called,  at  my  sug- 
gestion, to  see  Mrs.  Elliott,  accompanied  by  her  little 
boy,  whom  I  had  perceived  she  was  pining  to  see.  I 
thought  they  might  meet  without  affording  ground  for 
uneasiness  as  to  the  result. 

"  My  little  Harry !"  exclaimed  a  low  soft  voice  as 
my  wife  and  child  were  silently  ushered  into  the  room 
where  lay  Mrs.  Elliott,  wasted  almost  to  a  shadow,  her 
face  and  hands,  said  my  wife,  white  as  the  lily.  "  Come, 
love,  kiss  me  !"  she  faintly  murmured :  and  my  wife 
brought  the  child  to  the  bedside,  and  lifting  him  upon 
her  knee,  inclined  his  face  towards  his  mother.  She 
feebly  placed  her  arm  around  his  neck,  and  pressed 
him  to  her  bosom. 

u  Let  me  see  his  face  !"  she  whispered,  removing 
her  arm. 

She  gazed  tenderly  at  him  for  some  minutes  ;  the 
child  looking  first  at  her  and  then  at  my  wife  with  min- 
gled fear  and  surprise. 

"  How  lilce  his  father  /"  she  murmured — "kiss  me 
again,  love  !  Don't  be  afraid  of  your  poor  mother, 
Harry  !"  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  ^  "  Am  I  so  al- 
tered?" said  she  to  my  wife,  who  stammered  yes  and 
no  in  one  breath. 

"  Has  he  been  a  good  boy  ?" 

"  Very — very,"  replied  my  wife,  turning  aside  her 

*  Job,  xv.  23 


112  THE    MERCHANTS    CLERK. 

head,  unable  for  a  moment  to  look  either  mother  or  son 
in  the  face.  Mrs.  Elliott  perceived  my  wife's  emotion, 
and  her  chill  fingers  gently  grasped  her  hand. 

"  Does  he  say  his  prayers  1 — you've  not  forgotten 
that,  Henry  ?" 

The  child,  whose  little  breast  was  beginning  to  heave, 
shook  his  head,  and  lisped  a  faint  "  No,  mamma." 

"  God  bless  thee,  my  darling !"  exclaimed  his  mo- 
ther, in  a  low  tone,  closing  her  eyes.  "  He  will  not 
desert  thee,  nor  thy  parents  !  He  feeds  the  young  ra- 
vens when  they  cry  /"  She  paused,  and  the  tears  trem- 
bled through  her  almost  transparent  eyelids.  My  wife, 
who  had  with  the  utmost  difficulty  restrained  her  feel- 
ings, leaned  over  the  poor  sufferer,  pressed  her  lips  to 
her  forehead,  and  gently  taking  the  child  with  her, 
stepped  hastily  from  the  room.  As  soon  as  they  had 
got  into  the  matron's  parlour,  where  my  wife  sat  down 
for  a  few  moments,  her  little  companion  burst  into  tears, 
and  cried  as  if  his  heart  would  break.  The  matron  tried 
to  pacify  him,  but  in  vain.  "  I  hope,  ma'am,"  said  she, 
to  my  wife,  "  he  did  not  cry  in  this  way  before  his 

mother  1     Dr.  and   Mr. both  say  that  she 

must  not  be  agitated  in  any  way,  or  they  will  not  an- 
swer for  the  consequences."  At  this  moment  I  made 
my  appearance,  having  called,  in  passing,  to  pay  a  visit 
to  Mrs.  Elliott :  but  hearing  how  much  her  late  inter- 
view had  overcome  her,  I  left,  taking  my  wife  and  little 
Elliott — still  sobbing — with  me,  and  promising  to  look 
in,  if  possible,  in  the  evening.  I  did  do  so,  accord- 
ingly ;  and  found  her  happily  none  the  worse  for  the 
emotion  occasioned  by  her  first  interview  with  her  child 
since  her  illness.  She  expressed  herself  very  grateful 
to  me  for  the  care  which  she  said  we  had  evidently 
taken  of  him — u  and  how  like  he  grows  to  his  poor  fa- 
ther !"  she  added.  "  Oh !  doctor,  when  may  I  sec 
him  ?  Do,  dear  doctor,  let  us  meet,  if  it  be  but  for  a 
moment !  Oh,  how  I  long  to  see  him !  I  will  not  be 
agitated.  It  will  do  me  more  good  than  all  the  medi- 
cine in  this  building!'* 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK-  113 

"  In  a  few  day  s  time,  my  dear  madam,  I  assure 
you — " 

"  Why  not  to-morrow  ?  Oh,  if  you  knew  the  good 
that  one  look  of  his  would  do  me — he  does  not  look  ill  V* 
she  inquired,  suddenly. 

"  He — he  looks  certainly  rather  harassed  on  your 
account ;  but  in  other  respects,  he  is — " 

"  Promise  me — let  me  see  for  myself;  oh  bring  him 
with  you  !  I — I — I  own  I  could  not  bear  to  see  him 
alone — but  in  your  presence — do,  dear  doctor  !  prom- 
ise !     I  shall  sleep  so  sweetly  to-night  if  you  will." 

Her  looks — her  tender  murmuring  voice,  overcame 
me  ;  and  I  promised  to  bring  Mr.  Elliott  with  me  some 
time  on  the  morrow.     I  bade  her  good-night. 

"  Remember,  doctor  V1  she  whispered  as  I  rose  to  go. 

"  I  will !"  said  I,  and  quitted  the  room,  already  almost 
repenting  of  the  rash  promise  I  had  made.  But  who 
could  have  resisted  her  ? 

Sweet  soul !  what  was  to  become  of  thee  ?  Bred  up 
in  the  lap  of  luxury,  and  accustomed  to  have  every 
wish  gratified,  every  want  anticipated — what  kind  of 
scene  waited  thee  on  returning  to  thy  humble  lodging, 

"  Where  hopeless  Anguish  pour's  her  groan, 
And  lonely  Want  retired  to  die  ?" 

For  was  it  not  so  ?  What  miracle  was  to  save  them 
from  starvation  ?  Full  of  such  melancholy  reflections, 
I  walked  home,  resolving  to  leave  no  stone  unturned  on 
their  behalf,  and  pledging  myself  and  wife  that  the 
forty  pounds  we  had  already  collected  for  the  Elliotts, 
from  among  our  benevolent  friends,  should  be  raised  to 
a  hundred,  however  great  might  be  the  deficiency  we 
made  up  ourselves. 

Saturday.  I  was  preparing  to  pay  some  early  visits 
to  distant  patients,  and  arranging  so  as  to  take  Mr.  El- 
liott with  me  on  my  return,  which  I  calculated  would 
be  about  two  o'clock,  to  pay  the  promised  visit  to  Mrs. 
Elliott,  when  my  servant  brought  me  a  handful  of  let- 

10* 


114  THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK. 

ters  which  had  that  moment  been  left  by  the  twopenny 
postman.  I  was  going  to  cram  them  all  into  my  pocket, 
and  read  them  in  the  carriage,  when  my  eye  was  at- 
tracted by  one  of  them  much  larger  than  the  rest,  sealed 
with  a  black  seal,  and  the  address  in  Elliott's  hand- 
writing. I  instantly  resumed  my  seat ;  and  placing 
the  other  letters  in  my  pocket,  proceeded  to  break  the 
seal  with  some  trepidation,  which  increased  to  a  sick- 
ening degree  when  four  letters  fell  out — all  of  them 
sealed  with  black,  and  in  Elliott's  handwriting,  and  ad- 
dressed respectively  to  "  Jacob  Hillary,  Esq.,"  "  Mrs. 

Elliott,"  "  Henry  Elliott,"  and  »  Dr.  ,"  (myself.) 

I  sat  for  a  minute  or  two,  with  this  terrible  array  before 
me,  scarce  daring  to  breathe,  or  to  trust  myself  with 
my  thoughts,  when  my  wife  entered,  leading  in  her 
constant  companion,  little  Elliott,  to  take  their  leave, 
as  usual,  before  I  set  out  for  the  day.  The  sight 
of  "  Henry  Elliott,"  to  whom  one  of  these  portentous 
letters  was  addressed,  overpowered  me.  My  wife, 
seeing  me  much  discomposed,  was  beginning  to  inquire 
the  reason,  when  I  rose,  and  with  gentle  force  put  her 
out  of  the  room  and  bolted  the  door,  hurriedly  telling 
her  that  I  had  just  received  unpleasant  accounts  con- 
cerning one  or  two  of  my  patients.  With  trembling 
hands  I  opened  the  letter  which  was  addressed  to  me, 
and  read  with  infinite  consternation  as  follows  : — 

"When  you  are  reading  these  few  lines,  kind  doctor!  I 
shall  be  sweetly  sleeping  the  sleep  of  death.  All  will  be 
over  ;  there  will  be  one  wretch  the  less  upon  the  earth. 

"  God,  before  whom  I  shall  be  standing  face  to  face, 
while  you  read  this  letter,  will,  I  hope,  have  mercy 
upon  me,  and  forgive  me  for  appearing  before  him  un- 
called for.     Amen ! 

"  But  I  could  not  live.  I  felt  blindness — the  last 
curse — descending  upon  me — blindness  and  beggary. 
I  saw  my  wife  broken  hearted.  Nothing  but  misery 
and  starvation  before  her  and  her  child. 

"  Oh,  has  she  not  loved  me  with  a  noble  love  ?     And 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  115 

yet  it  is  thus  I  leave  her  !  But  she  knows  how  through 
life  I  have  returned  her  love,  and  she  will  hereafter  find 
that  love  alone  led  me  to  take  this  dreadful  step. 

"  Grievous  has  been  the  misery  she  has  borne  for 
my  sake.  I  thought,  in  marrying  her,  that  I  might 
have  overcome  the  difficulties  which  threatened  us — 
that  I  might  have  struggled  successfully  at  least  for  our 
bread ;  but  He  ordered  otherwise,  and  it  has  been  in  vain 
for  me  to  rise  up  early,  to  sit  up  late,  to  eat  the  bread 
of  sorrows. 

"  Why  did  I  leave  life  !  Because  I  know,  as  if  a 
voice  from  Heaven  had  told  me,  that  my  death  will 
reconcile  Mary  and  her  father.  It  is  me  alone  whom 
he  hates,  and  her  only  on  my  account.  When  I  shall 
be  gone,  he  will  receive  her  to  his  arms,  and  she  and 
my  son  will  be  happy. 

"  Oh,  my  God  !  that  I  shall  never  see  the  face  of 
Mary  again,  or —  But  presently  she  will  look  at  our 
son,  and  she  will  revive. 

44  I  entreat  you  as  in  the  name  of  the  dead — it  is  a 
voice  from  the  grave — to  be  yourself  the  bearer  of  this 
news  to  Mary,  when,  and  as  you  may  think  fit.  Give 
her  this  letter<and  also  give,  yourself,  to  Mr.  Hillary, 
the  letter  which  bears  his  dreadful  name  upon  it.  I 
know — I  feel — that  it  will  open  his  heart,  and  he  will 
receive  them  to  his  arms. 

44 1  have  written  also  a  few  lines  to  my  son.  Ah,  my 
boy,  your  father  will  be  mouldered  into  dust  before  you 
will  understand  what  I  have  written.  Grieve  for  your 
unfortunate  father,  but  do  not — disown  him  ! 

"  As  for  you,  best  of  men,  my  only  friend,  farewell ! 
Forgive  all  the  trouble  I  have  given.  God  reward  you ! 
You  will  be  in  my  latest  thoughts.  I  have  written  to 
you  last. 

44  Now  I  have  done.  I  am  calm  ;  the  bitterness  of 
death  is  past.  Farewell !  The  grave — the  darkness 
of  death  is  upon  my  soul — but  I  have  no  fear.  To- 
night, before  this  candle  shall  have  burned  out,  at  mid- 
night—   Oh,  Mary !  Henry !  shall  we  ever  meet  again? 

44  H.  E, 


116  THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK. 

I  read  this  letter  over  half  a  dozen  times,  for  every 
paragraph  pushed  the  preceding  one  out  of  my  mem- 
ory. Then  I  took  up  mechanically  and  opened  the 
letter  addressed  to  his  son.  It  contained  a  large  lock 
of  his  father's  hair,  and  the  following  verses,*  written 
in  a  great  straggling  hand : — 

"  I  have  wished  for  death  ;  wherefore  do  I  not  call 
for  my  son  ? 

"  My  son,  when  lam  dead,  bury  me ;  and  despise  not 
thy  mother,  but  honour  her  all  the  days  of  thy  life,  and 
do  that  which  shall  please  her,  and  grieve  her  not. 

"  Remember,  my  son,  that  she  saw  many  dangers  for 
thee  when  thou  wast  in  her  womb ;  and  when  she  is  dead 
bury  her  by  me  in  one  grave. 

"  Thus  on  the  point  of  death,  writes  thy  father  to  his 
beloved  son.     Remember  ! 

"  Henry  Elliott." 

As  soon  as  I  had  somewhat  recovered  the  shock 
occasioned  by  the  perusal  of  these  letters,  I  folded 
them  all  up,  stepped  hastily  into  my  carriage,  and  post- 
poning all  my  other  visits,  drove  oflfdirect  to  the  lodging 
of  Mr.  Elliott.  The  woman  of  the  house  was  standing 
at  the  door,  talking  earnestly  with  one  or  two  persons. 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Elliott  ?"  I  inquired,  leaping  out  of 
the  carriage. 

"  That's  what  we  want  to  know,  sir,"  replied  the 
woman,  very  pale.  "  He  must  have  gone  out  very  late 
last  night,  sir — and  hasn't  been  back  since  ;  for  when  I 
looked  into  his  room  this  morning  to  ask  about  break- 
fast it  was  empty." 

"  Did  you  observe  anything  particular  in  his  appear- 
ance last  night  ?"  I  inquired,  preparing  to  ascend  the 
little  staircase. 

"  Yes,  sir,  very  strange  like  !  And  about  eight  or 
nine  o'clock,  he  comes  to  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and 
calls  out, '  Mrs. ,  did  you  hear  that  noise  ?     Didn't 

*  From  the  Apocrypha.    Tobit,  ch.  iv.,  v.  2,  3,  4. 


THE    MERCHANTS    CLERK.  117 

you  see  something  V  '  Lud,  sir,'  said  I,  in  a  taking,  he 
spoke  so  sudden,  '  no !  there  wasn't  any  sound  whatso- 
ever !'  so  he  went  into  his  room,  and  shut  the  door,  and 
I  never  seed  him  since.'' 

I  hastened  to  his  room.  A.  candlestick,  its  candle 
burned  down  to  the  socket,  stood  on  the  little  table  at 
which  he  generally  sat,  together  with  a  pen  or  two,  ink, 
black  wax,  a  sheet  of  paper,  and  a  Bible  open  at  the 
place  from  which  he  had  copied  the  words  addressed 
to  his  son.  The  room  was  apparently  just  as  its  un- 
fortunate and  frantic  occupant  had  quitted  it.  I  opened 
the  table  drawer ;  it  was  full  of  paper  which  had  been 
covered  with  writing,  and  was  now  torn  into  small 
fragments.  One  half  sheet  was  left,  full  of  strange 
incoherent  expressions,  apparently  forming  part  of  a 
prayer,  and  evincing,  alas,  how  fearfully  the  writer's 
reason  was  disturbed  !  But  where  was  poor  Elliott  ? 
What  mode  of  death  had  he  selected  ? 

At  first  I  thought  of  instantly  advertising  and  descri- 
bing his  person,  and  issuing  handbills  about  the  neigh- 
bourhood ;  but  at  length  determined  to  wait  till  the  Mon- 
day's newspapers — some  one  of  which  might  contain  in- 
telligence concerning  him  which  might  direct  my  move- 
ments. And  in  the  mean  time — how  was  I  to  appear 
before  Mrs.  Elliott,  and  account  for  my  not  bringing  her 
husband?  I  determined  to  send  her  a  written  excuse,  on 
the  score  of  pressing  and  unexpected  engagements,  but 
promising  to  call  upon  her  either  on  Sunday  or  Monday. 
I  resolved  to  do  nothing  rashly ;  for  it  glanced  across  my 
mind,  as  possible,  that  Elliott  had  not  really  carried  into 
execution  the  dreadful  intentions  expressed  in  his  letter 
to  me,  but  had  resorted  to  a  stratagem  only  in  order  to 
terrify  Mr.  Hillary  into  a  reconciliation.  This  notion 
took  such  full  possession  of  my  heated  imagination,  that 
I  at  length  lost  sight  of  all  the  glaring  improbabilities  at- 
tending it.  Alas,  however,  almost  the  first  paragraph 
that  fell  under  my  hurried  eye,  in  scanning  over  the 
papers  of  Monday,  was  the  following  : — 

M  On  Saturday,  about  8  o'clock  in  the  morning,  some 


118  THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK. 

labourers  discovered  the  body  of  a  man  of  respectable 
appearance,  apparently  about  thirty  years  old,  floating, 
without  a  hat,  in  the  New  River.  It  was  immediately 
taken  out  of  the  water,  but  life  seemed  to  have  been 
for  some  hours  extinct.  One  or  two  letters  were  found 
upon  his  person,  but  the  writing  was  too  much  spread 
and  blotted  with  the  water  to  afford  any  clew  to  the 
identity  of  the  unfortunate  person.  The  body  lies  at 
the  Red  Boar  public  house,  where  a  coroner's  inquest 
is  .summoned  for  to-day  at  12  o'clock." 

I  drove  off  to  the  place  mentioned  in  the  paragraph, 
and  arrived  there  just  as  the  jury  was  assembling. 
There  was  a  considerable  crowd  about  the  doors.  I 
sent  in  my  card ;  and  stating  that  I  believed  I  could 
identify  the  body  for  which  the  inquest  was  summoned, 
I  was  allowed  to  view  the  corpse,  and  ushered  at  once 
into  the  room  where  it  lay. 

I  wish  Mr.  Hillary  could  have  entered  that  room  with 
me,  and  have  stood  beside  me,  as  I  stepped  shudder- 
ingly  forward,  and  perceived  that  I  was  looking  upon 
— his  victim  !  The  body  lay  with  its  wet  clothes  un- 
disturbed, just  as  it  had  been  taken  out  of  the  water. 
The  damp  hair,  the  eyes  wide  open,  the  hands  clenched 
as  if  with  the  agonies  of  death ! 

Here  lay  the  husband  of  Mrs.  Elliott — the  fond  ob 
ject  of  her  unconquerable  love  !  This  was  he  to  whom 
she  had  written  so  tenderly  on  quitting  him  !  Here  lay 
he  whom  she  had  so  sweetly  consoled  by  almost  daily 
messages  through  me  !  This  was  he  to  whom,  with  a 
pious  confidence,  she  had  predicted  her  speedy  and 
happy  return !  This  was  the  father  of  that  sweet  boy 
who  sat  prattling  at  my  table  only  that  morning  !  This 
— wretch  !  monster  !  fiend  ! — this  is  the  body  of  him 
you  flung,  on  an  infamous  charge,  into  the  dungeons  of 
Newgate  !  This  is  the  figure  of  him  that  shall  here- 
after— 

I  could  bear  it  no  longer,  and  rushed  from  the  room 
in  an  agony  !  After  drinking  a  glass  of  water  I  lecov- 
ercd  my  self-possession  sufficiently  to  make  my  appear* 


THE   MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  119 

ance  in  the  jury  room  ;  where  1  deposed  to  such  facts 
—carefully  concealing,  only  for  Mrs.  Elliott  and  her 
son's  sake,  the  causes  which  led  to  the  commission  of 
the  fatal  act — as  satisfied  the  jury  that  the  deceased 
had  destroyed  himself  while  in  a  state  of  mental  de- 
rangement; and  they  returned  their  verdict  accordingly. 

After  directing  the  immediate  removal  of  the  body 
to  the  house  where  Mr.  Elliott  had  lodged — the  scene  of 
so  many  agonies — of  such  intense  and  undeserved 
misery — I  drove  off;  and,  though  quite  unequal  to  the 
task,  hurried  through  my  round  of  patients,  anxious  to 
be  at  leisure  in  the  evening  for  the  performance  of  the 
solemn — the  terrible  duty  imposed  upon  me  by  poor 
Elliott — the  conveying  his  letter  to  Mr.  Hillary,  and 
communicating,  at  the  same  time,  with  all  the  energy 
in  my  power,  the  awful  results  of  his  cruel,  his  tyran- 
nical, his  unnatural  conduct.  How  I  prayed  that  God 
would  give  me  power  to  shake  that  old  man's  guilty 
soul ! 

Our  dinner  was  sent  away  that  day  almost  untouched. 
My  wife  and  I  interchanged  but  few  and  melancholy 
wrords  ;  our  noisy,  lively,  little  guest  was  not  present 
to  disturb,  by  his  innocent  sallies,  the  mournful  silence  ; 
for  unable  to  bear  his  presence,  I  had  directed  that  he 
should  not  be  brought  down  that  day.  I  had  written 
to  Mrs.  Elliott  a  brief  and  hasty  line,  saying  that  I 
had  just  seen  Mr.  Elliott !  but  that  it  would  be  impos- 
sible for  either  of  us  to  call  upon  her  that  day !  adding, 
that  I  would  certainly  call  upon  her  the  day  after,  and 
— Heaven  pardon  the  equivocation  ! — bring  Mr.  Elliott, 
if  possible,  which  I  feared  might  be  doubtful,  as  his 
eyes  were  under  very  active  treatment. 

I  have  had  to  encounter  in  my  time  many,  very 
many  trying  and  terrible  scenes ;  but  I  never  ap- 
proached any  with  so  much  apprehension  and  anxiety 
as  the  one  now  cast  upon  me.  Fortifying  myself  with 
a  few  glasses  of  .wine,  I  put  poor  Elliott's  letter  to  Mr.- 

Hillary  in   my  pocketbook,   and  drove   off  for   

Square.     I  reached  the  house  about  eight  o'clock.     My 


120  THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK. 

servant,  by  my  direction,  thundered  impetuously  at  the 
door — a  startling  summons  I  intended  it  to  be  !  The 
porter  drew  open  the  door  almost  before  my  servant 
had  removed  his  hand  from  the  knocker. 

"  Is  Mr.  Hillary  at  home?"  I  inquired,. stepping  hur- 
riedly from  my  carriage,  with  the  fearful  letter  in  my 
hand. 

"  He  is,  sir,"  said  the  man,  with  a  flurried  air — "but 
— he — he — does  not  receive  company,  sir,  since  my 
mistress's  death." 

"  Take  my  card  to  him,  sir.     My  name  is  Dr. ! 

I  must  see  Mr.  Hillary  instantly." 

I  waited  in  the  hall  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  re- 
ceived a  message,  requesting  me  to  walk  into  the  back 
drawing  room.  There  I  saw  Miss  Gubbley — as  the 
servant  told  me — alone,  and  dressed  in  deep  mourning. 
What  I  heard  of  this  woman  inspired  me  with  the 
utmost  contempt  and  hatred  for  her.  What  a  coun- 
tenance !  Meanness,  malice,  cunning,  and  sycophancy 
seemed  struggling  for  the  ascendant  in  its  expression. 

"  Pardon  me,  madam — my  business,"  said,  I  per- 
emptorily, "  is  not  with  you,  but  with  Mr.  Hillary. 
Him  I  must  see,  and  immediately." 

"  Dr. ,  what  is  the  matter  ?"  she  inquired,  with 

mingled  anger  and  anxiety  in  her  countenance. 

"I  have  a  communication,  madam,  for  Mr.  Hillary's 
private  ear — I  must  see  him ;  I  insist  upon  seeing  him 
immediately." 

"  This  is  strange  conduct,  sir,  really,"  said  Miss 
Gubbley,  in  an  impudent  manner,  but  her  features  be- 
coming every  moment  paler  and  paler.  "  Have  you 
not  already — " 

I  unceremoniously  pushed  the  malignant  little  para- 
site aside,  opened  the  folding  doors,  and  stepped  in- 
stantly mto  the  presence  of  the  man  I  at  once  desired 
and  dreaded  to  see.  He  sat  on  the  sofa,  in  the  attitude 
and  with  the  expression  of  a  man  who  had  been  sud- 
denly aroused  from  sleep. 

"  Dr. !"  he  exclaimed,  with  an  astonished  and 


ihe  merchant's  clerk.  121 

angry  air.     "  Your  servant,  doctor  !     What's  the  mean- 
ing of  all  this  ?" 

"  I  am  sorry  to  intrude  upon  you,  Mr.  Hillary — ■ 
especially  after  the  unpleasant  manner  in  which  our 
acquaintance  was  terminated — but— I  have  a  dreadful 
duty  to  perform" — pointing  to  the  letter  I  held,  and 
turning  towards  him  its  black  seal.  He  saw  it.  He 
seemed  rather  startled  or  alarmed ;  motioned  me,  with 
a  quick,  anxious  bow,  to  take  a  seat,  and  resumed  his 
own.  "  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Hillary — but  we  must  be 
alone"  said  I,  pointing  to  Miss  Gubbley,  who  had  fol- 
lowed me  with  a  suspicious  and  insolent  air,  exclaim- 
ing, as  she  stepped  hastily  towards  Mr.  Hillary — 
"  Don't  suffer  this  conduct,  sir !  It's  very  incorrect- 
very,  sir." 

"  We  must  be  alone,  sir,"  I  repeated,  calmly  and 
peremptorily,  "or  I  shall  retire  at  once.  You  would 
never  cease  to  repent  that,  sir :"  and  Mr.  Hillary,  as 
if  he  had  suddenly  discovered  some  strange  meaning 
in  my  eye,  motioned  the  pertinacious  intruder  to  the 
door,'  and  she  reluctantly  obeyed.  I  drew  my  chair 
near  Mr.  Hillary,  who  seemed,  by  this  time,  thoroughly 
alarmed. 

"  Will  you  read  this  letter,  sir  ?"  said  I,  handing  it 
to  him.     He  took  it  into  his  hand  ;  looked  first  at  the 
direction,  then  at  the  seal,  and  lastly  at  me,  in  silence. 
"  Do  you  know  that  handwriting,  sir  ?"  I  inquired. 
He  stammered  an  answer  in  the  negative. 
"  Look  at  it,  sir,  again.     You  ought  to  know  it — you 
must  know  it  well."     He  laid  dowiTthe  letter ;  fumbled 
in  his  waistcoat  pocket  for  his  glasses ;  placed  them 
with  infinite  trepidation  upon  his  forehead,  and  again 
took  the  letter  into  his  hands,  which  shook  violently  ; 
and  his  sight  was  so  confused  with  agitation,  that  I  saw 
he  could  make  nothing  of  it. 

"  It  seems — it  appears  to  be — a  man's  hand,  sir. 
Whose  is  it  ?  What  is  it  about  ?  What's  the  matter  ?" 
he  exclaimed,  looking  at  me  over  his  glasses  with  a 
frightened  stare. 

F  11 


122  the  merchant's  CLERK. 

"  I  have  attended,  sir,  a  coroner's  inquest  this  morn- 
ing— "  The  letter  dropped  instantly  from  Mr.  Hillary's 
shaking  hand  upon  the  floor  ;  his  lips  slowly  opened. 

'*  The  writer  of  that  letter,  sir,  was  found  drowned 
on  Saturday  last,"  I  continued,  slowly,  looking  stead- 
fastly at  him,  and  feeling  myself  grow  paler  every  mo- 
ment. "  This  day  I  saw  the  body  stretched  upon  a 
shutter,  at  an  inn.  Oh,  those  dreadful  eyes — that  hair, 
matted  and  muddy — those  clenched  hands  !  Horror 
filled  my  soul,  as  I  looked  at  all  this,  and  thought  of 

YOU  !" 

His  lips  moved,  he  uttered  a  few  unintelligible 
sounds,  and  his  face,  suddenly  bedewed  with  perspira- 
tion, assumed  one  of  the  most  ghastly  expressions  that 
a  human  countenance  could  exhibit.  I  remained  silent, 
nor  did  he  speak ;  but  the  big  drops  rolled  from  his 
forehead  and  fell  upon  the  floor.  In  the  pierglass  op- 
posite, to  which  my  eye  was  attracted  by  seeing  some 
moving  figure  reflected  in  it,  I  beheld  the  figure  of  Miss 
Gubbley ;  who  having  been  no  doubt  listening  at  the 
door,  could  no  longer  subdue  her  terrified  curiosity,  and 
stole  into  the  room  on  tiptoe,  and  stood  terror  stricken 
behind  my  chair.  Her  presence  seemed  to  restore 
Mr.  Hillary  to  consciousness. 

pi  "  Take  her  away — go  away — go — go,"  he  mur- 
mured, and  I  led  her,  unresisting,  from  the  room,  and, 
to  be  secure  from  her  further  intrusion,  bolted  both  the 
doors. 

"  You  had  better  read  the  letter,  sir,"  said  I,  with  a 
deep  sigh,  resuming  my  seat ;  his  eyes  remained  riveted 
on  me. 

"  I — I — I — cannot,  sir  !"  he  stammered.  A  long 
pause  ensued.  "  If— she — had  but  called" — he  gasped, 
"  but  once — or  sent — after  her — her  mother's  death — " 
and  with  a  long  groan  he  leaned  forward,  and  fell 
against  me. 

"  She  did  call,  sir.  She  came  the  day  after  her 
mother's  death,"  said  I,  shaking  my  head  sorrowfully. 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  123 

"  No,  she  didn't,"  he  replied,  suddenly  looking  at  me 
with  a  stupified  air. 

"  Then  her  visit  was  cruelly  concealed  from  you, 
sir.     Poor  creature  ! — I  know  she  called." 

He  rose  slowly  from  the  prostrate  posture  in  which 
he  had  remained  for  the  last  few  moments,  clenched 
his  trembling  fists,  and  shook  them  with  impotent  anger. 
"  Who — who"  he  muttered — "  who  dared — I — I — I'll 
ring  the  bell.     I'll  have  all  the — " 

"  Would  you  have  really  received  her,  then,  sir,  if 
you  had  known  of  her  calling  ?" 

His  lips  moved,  he  attempted  in  vain  to  utter  an 
answer,  and  sobbed  violently,  covering  his  face  with 
his  hands.  < 

"  Come,  Mr.  Hillary,  I  see,"  said  I,  in  a  somewhat 
milder  manner,  "  that  the  feelings  of  a  father  are  not 
utterly  extinguished" — he  burst  into  vehement  weep- 
ing;  "and  I  hope  that — that  you  may  live  to  repent 
the  frightful  wrongs  you  have  done  ;  to  redress  the 
wrongs  you  have  committed  !  Your  poor  persecuted 
daughter,  Mr.  Hillary,  is  not  dead."  He  uttered  a 
sudden  sharp  cry  that  alarmed  me  ;  grasped  my  hands, 
and  carrying  them  to  his  lips,  kissed  them  in  a  kind  of 
ecstasy. 

"  Tell  me,  say  plainly,  only  say — that  Mary  is 
alive !" 

"  Well,  then,  sir,  your  daughter  is  alive,  but — "  . 

He  fell  upon  his  knees,  and  groaned,  "  Oh  God,  I 
thank  thee  !     I  thank  thee  !     How  I  thank  thee  !" 

I  waited  till  he  had  in  some  measure  recovered  from 
the  ecstasy  of  emotion  into  which  my  words  had  thrown 
him,  and  assisted  in  loosening  his  shirt  collar  and 
neck  handkerchief,  which  seemed  to  oppress  him. 

"  Who,  then,"  he  stammered — "  who  was  found 
drowned — the  coroner's  inquest — " 

"  Her  poor  broken-hearted  husband,  sir,  who  will  be 
buried  at  my  expense  in  a  day  or  two." 

He  covered  his  face  again  with  his  hands,  and  cried 
bitterly. 

f2 


124  the  merchant's  clerk. 

"  This  letter  was  written  by  him  to  you,  sir ;  and  he 
sent  it  to  me  only  a  few  hours,  it  seems,  before  he  de- 
stroyed himself,  and  commissioned  me  to  deliver  it  to 
you.     Is  not  his  blood,  sir,  lying  at  your  door  ?" 

"  Oh  Lord,  have  mercy  on  me  !  Lord,  Christ,  for- 
give me  !  Lord,  forgive  a  guilty  old  sinner,"  he  groaned, 
sinking  again  on  his  knees,  and  wringing  his  hands. 
"I — I  am  his  murderer !     I  feel — I  know  it !" 

"  Shall  I  read  to  you,  sir,  his  last  words  ?"  said  I. 

"  Yes,  but  they'll  choke  me.  I  can't  bear  them." 
He  sank  back  exhausted  upon  the  sofa.  I  took  up  the 
letter  which  had  remained  till  then  upon  the  floor,  since 
he  had  dropped  it  from  his  palsied  grasp,  and  opening 
it,  read  with  faltering  accents  the  following : — 

"For  your  poor  dear  daughter's  sake,  sir,  who  is 
now  a  widow  and  a  beggar,  abandon  your  fierce  and 
cruel  resentment.  I  know  that  I  am  the  guilty  cause 
of  all  her  misery.  I  have  suffered  and  paid  the  full 
penalty  of  my  sin !  And  I  am,  when  you  read  this, 
among  the  dead. 

"Forgive  me,  father  of  my  beloved  and  suffering 
wife ! — forgive  me,  as  I  forgive  you,  in  this  solemn 
moment,  from  my  heart,  whatever  wrongs  you  may 
have  done  me ! 

"  Let  my  death  knock  loudly  at  your  heart's  door, 
so  that  it  may  open  and  take  in  my  suffering,  perish- 
ing Mary — your  Mary,  and  our  unoffending  little  one  ! 
I  know  it  will !  Heaven  tells  me  that  my  sacrifice  is 
accepted !  I  die  full  of  grief,  but  contented  in  the  be- 
lief that  all  will  be  well  with  the  dear  ones  I  leave  be- 
hind me.  God  incline  your  heart  to  mercy  !  Fare- 
well !  So  prays  your  unhappy,  guilty,  dying  son-in- 
law. 

"Henry  Elliott.'' 

It  was  a  long  while  before  my  emotion,  almost 
blinding  my  eyes  and  choking  my  utterance,  permit- 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  125 

ted  me  to  conclude  this  melancholy  letter.     Mr.  Hil- 
lary sat  all  the  while  aghast. 

"  The  gallows  is  too  good  for  me !"  he  gasped. 
*  Oh,  what  a  monster !  what  a  wretch  have  1  been ! 
Ay,  I'll  surrender !  I  know  I'm  guilty  !  It's  all  my 
doing  !  I  confess  all !  It  was  I — it  was  I  put  him  in 
prison."  I  looked  darkly  at  him  as  he  uttered  these 
last  words,  and  shook  my  head  in  silence. 

u  Ah  !  I  see,  I  see  you  know  it  all  !  Come,  then ! 
Take  me  away  !  Away  with  me  to  Newgate.  Any- 
where you  like.  I'll  plead  guilty!"  He  attempted  to 
rise,  but  sank  back  again  into  his  seat. 

"  But — where  s  Mary  ?"  he  gasped. 

"Alas,"  I  replied,  "she  does  not  yet  know  that  she 
is  a  widow  !  that  her  child  is  an  orphan  !  She  has 
herself,  poor  meek  soul,  been  lying  for  many  days  at 
the  gates  of  death,  and  even  yet,  her  fate  is  more  than 
doubtful !" 

*'  Where  is  she  ?  Let  me  know  !  tell  me,  or  I  shall 
die.  Let  me  know  where  I  may  go  and  drop  down  at 
her  feet,  and  ask  her  forgiveness  !" 

"  She  is  in  a  common  hospital — a  lying-in  hospital, 
sir — where  she,  a  few  days  ago  only,  gave  birth  to  a 
dead  child,  after  enduring,  for  the  whole  time  of  her 
pregnancy,  the  greatest  want  and  misery  !  She  has 
worked  her  poor  fingers  to  the  bones,  Mr.  Hillary. 
She  has  slaved  like  a  common  servant  for  her  child, 
her  husband,  and  herself,  and  yet  she  has  hardly  foimd 
bread  for  them!" 

"  Oh  K  stay,  stay,  doctor.  A  common  hospital !  my 
daughter — a  common  hospital !"  repeated  Mr.  Hillary, 
pressing  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  and  staring  vacantly 
at  me. 

"  Yes,  sir,  a  common  hospital !  Where  else  could 
she  go  to  1  God  be  thanked,  sir,  for  finding  such  re- 
sources, such  places  of  refuge  for  the  poor  and  for- 
saken !  She  fled  thither  to  escape  starvation,  and  to 
avoid  eating  the  bread  scarce  sufficient  for  her  hus- 
band and  her  child !     I  have  seen  her  endoring  such 

11* 


126  the  merchant's  clerk. 

misery  as  would  have  softened  the  heart  of  a  fiend; 
And,  good  God !  how  am  I  to  tell  her  what  has  hap- 
pened? How  I  shudder  at  the  task  that  her  dead  hus- 
band has  imposed  upon  me  !  What  am  I  to  say  to 
her?  Tell  me,  Mr.  Hillary,  for  I  am  confounded,  I 
am  in  despair  !  How  shall  I  break  to  her  this  fright- 
ful event?"  Mr.  Hillary  groaned.  "  Pray,  tell  me, 
sir,"  I  continued,  with  real  sternness,  "  what  am  I  to 
do  ?  How  am  I  to  face  your  wretched  daughter  in  the 
morning !  -  She  has  been  unable  even  to  see  her  hus- 
band for  a  moment  since  her  illness.  How  will  she 
bear  being  told  that  she  is  never  to  see  him  again  ?  I 
shall  be  almost  guilty  of  her  murder  1"  I  paused, 
greatly  agitated. 

"  Tell  her — tell  her — conceal  the  death,"  he  gasped  ; 
*'  and  tell  her  first,  that  all's  forgiven,  if  she'll  accept 
my  forgiveness,  and  forgive  me!  Tell  her,  be  sure 
to  tell  her  that  my  whole  fortune  is  hers  and  her 
child's.  Surely  that —  I  will  make  my  will  afresh. 
Every  halfppnny  shall  go  to  her  and  her  child.  It 
shall,  so  help  me,  God!" 

"  Poor  creature  !"  I  exclaimed,  bitterly,  "  can  money 
heal  thy  broken  heart  ?"  I  paused.  "  You  may  re- 
lent, Mr.  Hillary,  and  receive  your  unhappy  daughter 
into  your  house  again,  but,  believe  me,  her  heart  will 
lie  in  her  husband's  grave  !"  • 

"  Doctor,  doctor  ! — you  are  killing  me  !"  he  ex- 
claimed, every  feature  writhing  under  the  scourgings 
of  remorse.  "  Tell  me!  only  tell  me  what  can  I  do 
more  ?  This  house — all  I  have,  is  hers,  for  the  rest  of 
her  life.  She  may  turn  me  into  the  streets.  I'll  live 
on  bread  and  water,  they  shall  roll  in  gold.  But,  oh, 
where  is  she  ?  where  is  she  ?  I'll  send  the  carriage 
instantly."  He  rose,  as  if  intending  to  ring  the  bell. 
I  "  No,  no,  Mr.  Hillary  ;  she  must  not  be  disturbed  ! 
She  must  remain  at  her  present  abode,  under  the  roof 
of  charity,  where  she  lies,  sweet  being !  humble  and 
grateful  among  her  sisters  in  suffering  !" 

"I — I'll  give  a  thousand  pounds  to  the  charity — I 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  127 

will.  I'll  give  a  couple  of  thousands,  so  help  me  God, 
I  will.  And  I'll  give  it  in  the  name  of  a  repentant  old 
sinner.  Oh — I'll  do  everything  that  a  guilty  wretch 
can  do.  But  I  must  see  my  daughter! — I  must  hear 
her  blessed  innocent  lips  say  that  she  forgives  me." 

"  Pause,  sir,"  said  1,  solemnly ,  u  you  know  not  that 
she  will  live  to  leave  the  hospital,  or  receive  your  pen- 
itent acknowledgments — that  she  will  not  die  while  I 
am  telling  her  the  horrid — " 

••  What !  has  she  yet  to  hear  of  it?"  he  exclaimed, 
looking  aghast. 

"I  told  you  so,  sir,  some  time  ago." 

"  Oh,  yes — you  did,  you  did  but  I  forgot.  Lord, 
Lord,  I  feel  going  mad  1"  He  rose  feebly  from  the 
sofa,  and  staggered  for  a  moment  to  and  fro,  but  his 
knees  refused  their  support,  and  he  sank  down  again 
upon  his  seat,  where  he  sat  staring  at  me  with  a  dull 
glassy  eye,  while  I  proceeded  : 

u  Another  melancholy  duty  remains  to  be  performed 
I  think,  sir,  you  should  see  his  remains." 

"  I  see  the  body  !"  Fright  flitted  over  his  face.  "  Do 
you  wish  me  to  drop  down  dead  beside  it,  sir  ?  I  see 
the  body  !  It  would  burst  out  a-bleeding  directly  I 
got  into  the  room,  for  I  murdered  him  !  Oh  God,  for- 
give   me  !     Oh  spare  me  such  a  sight !" 

"  Well,  sir,  since  your  alarm  is  so  great,  that  sad  sight 
may  be  spared  ;  but  there  is  one  thing  you  must  do — " 
I  paused  ;  he  looked  at  me  apprehensively — "  testify 
your  repentance,  sir,  by  following  his  poor  remains  to 
the  grave." 

"I — I  could  not!  It's  no  use  frightening  me  thus, 
doctor.  I — I  tell  you  I  should  die,  I  should  never  re- 
turn home  alive.  But,  if  you'll  allow  it,  my  carriage 
shall  follow.  I'll  give  orders  this  very  night  for  a 
proper,  a  splendid  funeral,  such  as  is  fit  for — my — my — 
son-in-law!  He  shall  be  buried  in  my  vault.  No,  no, 
that  cannot  be,  for  then" — he  shuddered — "  I  must  lie 
beside  him  !  But,  I  cannot  go  to  the  funeral !  Lord, 
Lord,  how  the  crowd  would  stare  at  me  ! — how  they 


128  the  merchant's  clerk. 

would  hoot  me  !  They  would  tear  me  out  of  the  coach. 
No" — he  trembled — "  spare  me  that  also,  kind  sir — 
spare  me  attending  the  funeral !  I'll  remain  at  home 
in  my  own  room  in  the  dark  all  that  day  upon  my  knees, 
but  I  cannot,  nay,  I  will  not  follow  him  to  the  grave. 
The  tolling  of  that  bell" — his  voice  died  away — 
"  would  kill  me." 

"  There  is  yet  another  thing,  sir.  His  little  boy" — 
my  voice  faltered — u  is  living  at  my  house  ;  perhaps 
you  would  refuse  to  see  him,  for  he  is  very  like  his 
wretched  father." 

"  Oh  bring  him  !  bring  him  to  me  !"  he  murmured. 
11  How  I  will  worship  him !  what  I  will  do  for  him ! 
But  how  his  murdered  father  will  always  look  out  of 
his  eyes  at  me  !  Oh  my  God !  whither  shall  I  go ; 
what  must  I  do  to  escape  1  Oh  that  I  had  died  and 
been  buried  with  my  poor  wife,  the  other  day,  before 
I  had  heard  of  all  this  !" 

"  You  would  have  known,  you  would  have  heard  of 
it  hereafter,  sir." 

"  Ah  !  that's  it !  I  know  it,  I  know  what  you  mean, 
and  I  feel  it's  true.  Yes,  I  shall  be  damned  for  what 
I've  done.  Such  a  wretch,  how  can  I  expect  forgive- 
ness ?  Oh,  will  you  read  a  prayer  with  me  ?  No,  I'll 
pray  myself — no." 

"  Pray,  sir,  and  may  your  prayers  be  heard  !  And 
also  pray  that  I  may  be  able  to  tell  safely  my  awful 
message  to  your  daughter,  that  the  blow  may  not  smite 
her  into  the  grave  !  And  lastly,  sir,"  I  added,  rising 
and  addressing  him  with  all  the  emphasis  and  solem- 
nity I  could,  "  I  charge  you,  in  the  name  of  God,  to 
make  no  attempt  to  see  your  daughter,  or  send  to  her, 
till  you  see  or  hear  from  me  again." 

He  promised  to  obey  my  injunctions,  imploring  me 
to  call  upon  her  the  next  day,  and  seizing  my  hand  be- 
tween his  own  with  a  convulsive  grasp,  from  which  I 
could  not  extricate  it  but  with  some  little  force.  As  I 
had  never  once  offered  a  syllable  of  sympathy  through- 
out our  interview,  so  I  quitted  his  presence  coldly  and 


THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK.  129 

sternly,  while  he  threw  himself  down  at  full  length  up- 
on the  sofa,  and  I  heard  without  any  emotion  his  half 
choked  exclamation,  "  Lord,  Lord,  what  is  to  become 
of  me !" 

On  reaching  the  back  drawing  room,  I  encountered 
Miss  Gubbley  walking  to  and  fro,  excessively  pale 
and  agitated.  I  had  uncoiled  that  little  viper — I 
had  plucked  it  from  the  heart  into  which  it  had  crept, 
and  so  far  I  felt  that  I  had  not  failed  in  that  night's  er- 
rand !  I  foresaw  her  speedy  dismissal ;  and  it  took 
place  within  a  week  from  the  day  on  which  I  had  vis- 
ited Mr.  Hillary. 

The  next  day,  about  noon,  I  called  at  the  lodging 
where  Elliott's  remains  were  lying,  in  order  that  I 
might  make  a  few  simple  arrangements  for  a  speedy 
funeral. 

"  Oh,  here's  Dr. !"  exclaimed  the   woman  of 

the  house,  to  a  gentleman  dressed  in  black,  who,  with 
two  others  in  similar  habiliments,  was  just  quitting. 
i;  These  'ere  gentlemen,  sir,  are  come  about  the  funeral, 
sir,  of  poor  dear  Mr.  Elliott."  I  begged  them  to  return 
into  the  house.  "  I  presume,  sir,"  said  I,  "  you  have 
been  sent  here  by  Mr.  Hillary's  orders?" 

"  A — Mr.  Hillary  did  me  the  honour,  sir,  to  request 
me  to  call,  sir,"  replied  the  polite  man  of  death,  with  a 
low  bow,  "  and  am  favoured  with  the  expression  of  his 
wishes,  sir,  to  spare  no  expense  in  showing  his  re- 
spect for  the  deceased.  So  my  men  have  just  meas- 
ured the  body,  sir ;  the  shell  will  be  here  to-night, 
sir,  the  leaden  coffin  the  day  after,  and  the  outer  cof- 
fin—" 

"Stop,  sir;  Mr.  Hillary  is  premature.  He  has 
quite  mistaken  my  wishes,  sir.  I  act  as  the  executor 
of  Mr.  Elliott,  and  Mr.  Hillary  has  no  concern  what- 
ever with  the  burial  of  these  remains." 

He  bowed,  with  an  air  of  mingled  astonishment  and 
mortification. 

M  It  is  my  wish  and  intention,  sir,"  said  I,  "that  this 

f3 


130  THE    MERCHANT'S    CLERK. 

unfortunate  gentleman  be  buried  in  the  simplest  and 
most  private  manner  possible." 

"  Oh,  sir  !  but  Mr.  Hillary's  orders  to  me  were — par- 
don me,  sir — so  very  liberal,  to  do  the  thing  in  a  gen- 
tlemanlike way — " 

"  I  tell  you  again,  sir,  that  Mr.  Hillary  has  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  the  matter,  nor  shall  I  admit  of  his 
interference.     If  you  choose  to  obey  my  orders,  you  , 
will  procure  a  plain  deal  coffin,  a  hearse  and  pair,  and 

one  mourning  coach,   and   provide   a  grave  in  • 

churchyard — nay,  open  Mr.  Hillary's  vault  and  bury 
there,  if  he  will  permit." 

"  I- re  ally  think,  sir,  you'd  better  employ  a  person  in 
the  small  way,"  said  he,  casting  a  grim  look  at  his  two 
attendants  ;  "  I  am  not  accustomed — " 

"  You  may  retire  then,  sir,  at  once,"  said  I ;  and  with 
a  lofty  bow  the  great  undertaker  withdrew.  No ! — 
despised,  persecuted,  and  forsaken  had  poor  Elliott 
been  in  his  life  ;  there  should  be,  I  resolved,  no  splen- 
did mockery — no  fashionable  foolery  about  his  burial ! 
I  chose  for  him,  not  the  vault  of  Mr.  Hillary,  but  a 

grave  in  the  humble  churchyard  of ,  where  the 

poor  suicide  might  slumber  in  "  penitential  loneliness!" 

He  was  buried  as  I  wished — no  one  attending  the 
funeral  but  myself,  the  proprietor  of  the  house  in  which 
he  had  lived  at  the  period  of  his  death,  and  the  early 
and  humble  acquaintance  who  had  attended  his  wed- 
ding. I  had  wished  to  carry  with  us  as  chief  mourner, 
little  Elliott,  by  way  of  fulfilling,  as  far  as  possible,  the 
touching  injunctions  left  by  his  father,  but  my  wife  dis- 
suaded me  from  it.  •'  Well,  poor  Elliott,"  said  I,  as  I 
took  my  last  look  into  his  grave — 

1  After  life's  fitful  fever  he  sleeps  well.'  / 

Heaven  forgive  the  rash  act  which  brought  his  days  to 
an  untimely  close,  and  him  whose  cruelty  and  wicked- 
ness occasioned  it !"  i 
I  shall  not  bring  the  reader  again  into  the  guilty  and 


the  merchant's  clerk.  131 

gloomy  presence  of  Mr.  Hillary.  His  hard  heart  was 
indeed  broken  by  the  blow  that  poor  Elliott  had  struck, 
whose  mournful  prophesy  was  in  this  respect  fulfilled. 
Providence  decreed  that  the  declining  days  of  the  in- 
exorable and  unnatural  parent  should  be  clouded  with 
a  wretchedness  that  admitted  of  neither  intermission 
nor  alleviation,  equally  destitute  as  he  was  of  consola- 
tion from  the  past,  and  hope  from  the  future  ! 

And  his  daughter ! — oh,  disturb  not  the  veil  that  has 
fallen  over  the  broken  hearted  ! 

Never  again  did  the  high  and  noble  spirit  of  Mary 
Elliott  lift  itself  up — for  her  heart  lay  buried  in  her 
young  husband's  grave — the  grave  dug  for  him  by  the 
eager  and  cruel  hands  of  her  father  !  In  vain  did  those 
hands  lavishly  scatter  about  her  all  the  splendour  and 
luxuries  of  unbounded  wealth — they  could  never  divert 
her  cold  undazzled  eye  from  the  mournful  image  of  him 
whose  death  had  purchased  them  ;  and  what  could  she 
see  in  her  too  late  repentant  father,  but  his  murderer  ? 


END  OF  THE  MERCHANT  S  CLERK, 


THE     WAGONER. 


King  John.  Hubert,  throw  thine  eye 

On  yon  young  boy.     Dost  understand  me  ? 
He  is  a  very  serpent  in  my  way. 
Thou  art  his  keeper. 

Hub.  And  I  will  keep  him  so, 

That  he  shall  not  offend  your  majesty. 

King  John.     Death. 

Hub.  My  lord? 

King  John.  A  grave. 

Hub.  He  shall  not  live. 

Kmg  John.  Enough. 

I  could  be  merry  now. 

King  Johx,  Act  III.,  Scene  3. 

The  singular — the  apparently  improbable  circum- 
stances which  form  the  basis  of  the  ensuing  narrative, 
occurred  about  fifty  years  ago.  I  am  not  aware  of  their 
having  been  till  now  brought  before  the  public  eye  in 
any  other  shape  than  a  brief  and  naked  contemporaneous 
report.  I  am  a  curious  man,  and  somewhat  successful 
in  hunting  after  such  matters  ;  but  the  following  are 
the  fruits  of  a  discovery  made  a  few  years  ago  by  mere 
accident.  One  or  two  cases  are  on  record,  in  the 
criminal  annals  of  this  and  other  countries,  in  which 
similar  motives  induced  nearly  similar  conduct — but 
infinitely  less  systematic,  mysterious,  and  atrocious, 
than  what  I  am  at  present  about  to  develop. 

Shrewsbury  clock  was  tolling  twelve,  on  a  fine 
frosty  moonlight  night,  ushering  in  the  Christmas  of 
1760,  as  a  wagoner,  with  a  snow-white  smock-frock 
on,  and  a  half-emptied  jug  of  ale  in  his  hand,  sallied 
out  of  the  Hunting  Horn  inn — one  of  the  chiefest  in 

12 


134  THE    WAGONER. 

Shrewsbury.  His  wagon  was  standing  before  the 
door,  the  covering  incrusted  with  hoar  frost,  and  a  no- 
ble team  of  horses  attached  to  the  well-laden  vehicle 
were  refreshing  themselves  with  hay  and  water,  qui- 
etly submitting,  the  while,  to  the  sibilatory  civilities 
of  the  hostler.  The  wagoner  watched  them  with  com- 
placency, as  he  drained  his  jug ;  and  then  lifting  up 
his  smock,  he  extracted  a  few  halfpence  from  his 
pocket,  and  gave  them  to  the  hostler.  \ 

"  And  do  you  go  into  the  tap,  hostler,"  said  he, 
"  and  see  whether  these  two  partners  o'  mine  are  a 
stirring  themselves.  Hang  me,  an  I  don't  think  they 
would  sit  there  till  this  time  to-morrow  !"  He  was 
interrupted  by  a  shout  of  boisterous  laughter  from 
the  taproom.  "  I  say — within  there  !  Bill !  Thomas  !" 
cried  the  wagoner,  returning  to  the  room  he  had  just 
quitted,  "  what  be  ye  doing  in  there  sotting  1  Come, 
come  !  ye  know  as  well  as  I  'tis  starting  time  !  Do 
you  hear  ?  it  has  just  struck  twelve  by  the  church 
clock."  "  Then  'tis  to-morrow,"  quoth  one  of  the 
wags  he  was  addressing. 

"  Come,  come,  now!"  continued  the  wagoner  ;  "we've 
a  weary  week's  drive  before  us — and  you  know  it  as 
well  as  I !  Are  ye  moving,  eh  ?"  "  Aha,  Dick  ! — 
isn't  this  Christmas  morning  1  Come  !  don't  ye  be 
sulking  on  the  beginning  of  this  blessed  day  ;  but  sit 
:ye  down  a  little  longer,  and  drink  a  merry  Christmas 
to  one  another !"  "  No,  I  won't,"  replied  the  wagoner, 
resolutely. 

M  Well,  then — an  ye  must  start,  do  ye  drive  the 
wagon  slowly — and  we'll  both  be  after  you  before  you 
reach  the  Baker's  Pond.  There's  some  ale  a  spicing 
for  us,  Dick,"  replied  Thomas,  smacking  his  lips  en- 
ticingly. "No,  no,  I  know  my  duty — and  I'm  off," 
grumbled  the  wagoner,  quitting  the  room.  He  went 
out,  cast  his  careful  eye  over  the  trim  of  his  horses, 
and  had  just  reached  down  his  whip  from  the  wagon 
head,  when  one  of  his  companions  touched  him  upon 
the  elbow,  and  proffered  him  a  cup  of  warm  spice- 


THE    WAGONER.  135 

scented  ale.  "  Come,  Dick — come,  drink  it  off,"  said 
Bill,  coaxingly — a  good-natured  lad  of  one  or  two  and 
twenty,  that  could  say  fair  things  as  well  „as  many  of 
his  betters  ;  "  come,  you  won't  refuse  to  drink  us  a 
merry  Christmas  ?  This  ale  is  special,  man  !  Won't 
ye  drive  on  slowly  for  half  an  hour,  or  so — and  we'll 
be  with  you,  as  sure  as  death,  by  when  you  reach  the 
Baker's  Pond  ?  Come,  come,  Dick — we'll  do,  maybe, 
more  for  you  at  a  pinch  V*  The  good-natured  wagoner 
was  not  proof  against  fair  words  and  spiced  ale.  He 
yielded,  took  the  cup,  drained  it  La  a  twinkling,  shook 
Bill  heartily  by  the  hand,  wished  him  a  merry  Christ- 
mas, and  added,  "  Now  don't  ye  be  long  a  following ; 
for  drive  slow  as  I  will,  you'll  have  two  or  three  miles 
to  run  for  it,  1  know  !" 

"  We'll  look  to  that,  Dick — good-by,"  replied  Bill, 
hurrying  inward,  while  Dick  betook  himself  to  his 
horses'  heads,  cracked  and  smacked  his  whip  ;  his 
horses  pricked  up  their  ears,  and  away  they  went. 
The  ponderous  wagon  rumbled  heavily  over  the  stones 
of  silent  Shrewsbury,  accompanied  by  the  clattering 
of  sixteen  pair  of  horses'  hoofs,  and  the  occasional 
*'  Gee — o — a — whoop  !  Come  up  !  On,  Smiler !"  of 
the  driver,  who  was  soon  out  of  sight  of  the  jovial 
Hunting  Horn,  and  fairly  started  on  the  broad  London 
road.  He  walked  slowly  by  the  horses'  heads  for 
some  time,  whistling  and  humming  to  himself,  and  ev- 
ery three  or  four  minutes  turning  back  his  head  to- 
wards Shrewsbury,  to  see  whether  his  companions 
wrere  yet  on  the  road.  He  had  proceeded,  however, 
at  his  very  slowest  pace,  for  more  than  an  hour,  with- 
out their  appearing. 

*'  Now,  this  is  unkind,"  quoth  the  wagoner  to  him- 
self, as  he  trudged  along ;  "  but  did  I  not  say  it  would 
be  so  ?  Here  are  Bill  and  Tom  sitting  snugly  by  the 
fire — drinking  till  they  be  drunken  !  What  shall  I  do  ! 
I  must  go  on !  Lord,  Lord,  how  bitter  cold  it  is !" 
He  laid  his  whip  across  the  shafts  of  the  wagon,  and 
stood  still,  slapping  his  hands  against  his  sides  for 


136  THE    WAGONER. 

warmth.  By  the  time  he  had  done,  his  wagon  had 
proceeded  thirty  or  forty  paces  ahead  of  him.  Just 
as  he  was  overtaking  it,  he  passed  a  milestone ;  and, 
with  alarm  and  surprise,  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  figure 
of  a  brawny  sailor-looking  man,  sitting  beside  it,  with 
a  little  basket  by  his  side. 

"  Good-morning !  A  merry  Christmas  to  )rou,  Master 
Wagoner  !  How  are  you,  eh  ?"  inquired  the  stranger. 
"  Pretty  well,  but  desperate  late — desperate  !"  replied 
the  flurried  wagoner,  passing  by  the  speaker. 

"  Stop,  just  stop  a  minute,"  said  he  :  "  have  you  got 
anybody  in  your  wagon  ?  Can  you  make  room  for 
me,  eh  ?"  "  Lord,  sir,  no,  I'se  got  three  men  sleeping 
there  already,"  replied  the  poor  fellow,  his  heart  beat- 
ing fast — thinking  he  had  hit  upon  a  good  device  for 
terrifying  one  whom  he  took  to  be  a  highwayman. 
"They're  all  soldiers — all  three  of  them;  and  I'm 
giving  them  a  lift  for  ten  miles  or  so.  They've  all  got 
their  muskets." 

"Eh!  What?  soldiers,  did  you  say?"  inquired 
the  man,  evidently  disconcerted.  "  May  I  die  if  I 
haven't !"  replied  the  wagoner,  stoutly. 

"  What  the brings  soldiers  into  these  parts, 

eh  ?"  "  Lord,  sir,  I  don't  know.  You  had  better  ask 
them,  for  they're  calling  to  me.  Good-morrow — 
good-morrow,  sir,"  said  the  wagoner,  and  running  up 
to  his  wagon,  he  affected  to  be  walking  in  conversa- 
tion with  some  one  inside  of  it.  He  was  very  much 
alarmed  at  the  slight  accident  just  recounted,  and  was 
growing  more  and  more  uneasy  at  the  prolonged  ab- 
sence of  his  companions.  His  head  was  filled  with 
fears  of  murder  and  robbery.  Could  he  doubt  that  the 
person  he  had  been  speaking  to  was  a  highwayman  ? 
Often  did  he  look  over  his  shoulder,  to  see  whether 
the  man  who  had  addressed  him  was  following  ;  but  he 
saw  nothing  moving  on  the  long  line  of  high  road  he 
had  passed,  and  his  fears  began  to  abate. 

It  was  now  not  far  from  two  o'clock,  and  the  morn- 
ing  continued   bright  and   frosty.     Like  the  eye  of 


THE    WAGONER.  137 

beauty,  the  moon  shone  forth  radiantly  and  cheeringly 
from  the  unclouded  blue.  No  sound  interrupted  the 
solemn  silence,  except  the  drowsy  tinkling  of  a  few 
bells  about  the  horses'  heads,  the  clattering  of  their 
hoofs,  and  the  monotonous  rumbling  of  the  wagon 
wheels.  For  an  hour  and  a  half  the  wagoner  had  met 
nothing  moving  on  the  road,  except  the  mail,  which 
had  thundered  past  him  about  twenty  minutes  before. 
He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  occurrence  which 
had  so  alarmed  him.  Even  the  prolonged  absence  of 
his  two  companions  seemed  to  have  ceased  disturbing 
him  ;  for  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  continue  at  his 
next  putting-up  place  till  they  arrived.  Recollecting 
suddenly  that  it  was  Christmas,  he  clambered  up  a 
holly  hedge  on  the  left-hand  side  of  the  road,  to  pluck 
a  conspicuous  piece  of  glistening  mistletoe.  While  in 
the  act  of  cropping  it,  he  thought  he  saw,  in  a  cross- 
road at  some  little  distance,  the  figure  of  some  one 
running  very  fast.  But  what  was  there  alarming  in 
that  ?  he  thought,  as  he  leaped  down,  and  overtook  his 
wagon.  He  stuck  his  mistletoe  in  the  brim  of  his  great 
white  hat,  resumed  his  whip,  and  went  on,  cheerily 
singing  the  verses  of  a  Christmas  carrol — 

The  holly's  berry  is  not  so  red 

As  the  blessed  blood  that  Jesus  shed  ■ 

Nor  pretty  mistletoe, 

Though  it  be  white  as  snow 

So  white  as  — 

The  words  wrere  still  on  his  lips,  when,  arrived  at 
an  abrupt  turn  of  the  road,  he  was  suddenly  seized  by 
several  men  in  sailor's  dresses,  and  thrown  down  on 
the  ground.  In  spite  of  all  his  stragglings  his  arms 
were  fastened  to  his  sides,  his  legs  tied  together,  his 
eyes  were  bandaged,  and  a  gag  was  forced  into  his 
mouth.  He  was  pressed  down  by  the  knees  of  his 
ruffianly  assailants,  flat  into  the  road  ;  and  a  voice  ad- 
dressed him  in  hurried,  but  distinct  tones,  "  'Tis  no 
use  to  struggle.  If  you  are  not  immediately  quiet  your 
brains  will  be  dashed  out  directly.     Only  be  easy,  and 

12* 


133  THE    WAGONER. 

you  will  not  have  a  hair  of  your  head  hurt ;  but  if  you 
attempt  to  make  a  noise,  there  is  a  pistol,  always  load- 
ed and  cocked,  within  a  few  inches  of  your  head — 
see  !"  and  the  bandage  was  slipped  from  his  eyes  for 
a  moment,  that  they  might  look  at  a  large  horse  pistol 
in  close  contiguity  with  his  forehead.  Short  and  fear- 
ful as  was  the  glance  which  the  wagoner  gave  at 
the  formidable  weapon,  he  did  not  fail  to  observe 
that  the  hand  holding  the  pistol  was  the  fair  white 
hand  of  a  gentleman,  and  that  there  was  a  spark- 
ling ring  on  his  finger.  After  what  he  had  seen  and 
heard,  the  wagoner  perceived  the  folly  of  attempting 
to  disturb  or  resist  his  captors.  Perfectly  passive,  he 
was  elevated  on  the  back  of  one  of  the  men,  who  car- 
ried him  about  twenty  yards  backward  and  forward, 
and  then  roundabout,  evidently  to  mislead  him  as  to 
the  direction  in  which  they  were  about  to  take  him. 
He  was  then  placed  in  a  vehicle — whether  a  post 
chaise  or  a  carriage  he  could  not  tell :  some  one  en- 
tered with  him  ;  the  door  was  shut,  and  a  voice  called 
out  to  the  driver,  "  Ready — drive  on !"  and  away 
they  went  rapidly.  The  agony  occasioned  by  the  gag 
in  his  mouth,  the  aching  of  the  teeth,  and  straining  of 
the  jaws,  became  soon  intolerable;  and  careless  of 
consequences,  he  groaned  and  gasped  piteously,  and 
strove  to  articulate.  The  choking  sounds  he  uttered 
seemed  to  alarm  one  of  the  persons  sitting  beside  him  ; 
for  the  gag  was  presently  removed,  and  he  was  asked, 
in  a  kind  tone,  whether  the  gag  hurt  him.  The  poor 
fellow's  jaws  fell  together  the  instant  the  gag  was  re- 
moved, and  for  some  time  he  could  not  separate  them 
so  as  to  utter  a  syllable.  He  seemed  pitied  by  the 
persons  beside  him  ;  for  he  was  told  that  if  he  would 
but  be  silent,  the  gag  should  not  be  applied  again  ;  but 
that  the  moment  he  attempted  to  make  any  disturbance 
it  would  be  replaced,  even  if  it  tortured  him  to  death. 
He  was  told  further,  that  wherever  he  might  be  taken, 
it  would  be  useless  to  call  for  assistance  ;  for  he  would 
be  taken  to  a  place  where  no  living  being  would  be 


THE   WAGONER.  139 

near  him  but  those  who  had  him  in  their  custody.  All 
this  was  said  in  a  mild  expostulating  tone  and  manner, 
though  with  evident  attempts  to  disguise  the  voice. 
Putting  all  things  together,  hasty  as  was  his  attempt 
to  reason  on  his  situation,  the  wagoner's  terror  began 
to  give  place  to  sheer  amazement.  He  could  not  con- 
jecture what  could  be  the  motive  of  those  who  had 
seized  him.  He  could  scarcely  think  plunder  their 
object,  till  he  suddenly  adverted  to  his  wagon,  fully 
laden — ah  !  the  thing  was  fearfully  probable  !  How 
did  he  know  but  it  contained,  unknown  to  himself,  yet 
known  to  those  who  had  seized  him,  articles  of  very 
great  value — money  or  plate  1  Horrid  thought !  was 
he  being  conveyed  by  highwaymen  to  their  secret 
place  of  rendezvous,  there  to  be  despatched,  that  he 
might  tell  no  tales  ?  He  was  trembling  with  the  ter- 
ror occasioned  by  these  surmises  when  the  vehicle 
stopped ;  the  cords  which  bound  his  legs  were  untied  ; 
and  he  was  told  to  step  out.  With  the  shivering  re- 
luctance of  a  sheep  being  urged  into  the  bloody  slaugh- 
ter house,  the  wagoner  obeyed,  screaming,  "  Mercy  ! 
mercy  !  mercy,  gentlemen  !"  and  he  dropped  upon  his 
knees.  He  was  suddenly  plucked  up,  however.  "  Si- 
lence, sir !"  whispered  the  voice  of  one  who  firmly 
grasped  his  right  arm — "remember!"  and  the  wag- 
oner felt  the  muzzle  of  a  pistol  touching  his  ear.  His 
limbs  could  scarcely  support  him  ;  so  he  was  rather 
dragged  and  pushed  than  anything  else,  along  a  paved 
place.  He  heard  the  sound  of  a  wooden  gate  being 
unbarred  ;  and  presently  the  scent  of  cattle  and  stables 
that  met  his  nostrils,  led  him  to  conclude  that  he  was 
in  a  farmyard.  He  was  stopped  a  moment  by  his 
conductors,  and  one  of  them  whispered,  in  low  earnest 
tones,  "Now,  step  very  lightly,  hold  your  tongue, 
and  make  haste  ;  or  I,  who  shall  follow  close  behind, 
with  a  loaded  pistol  almost  touching  the  back  of  your 
head,  will,  without  hesitation,  fire  at  you.  All  this 
mystery  and  fright  will  be  over  in  half  an  hour.    Now, 


sir 


|M 


140  THE    WAGONER. 

"  Oh,  I  will  obey,  sirs  !  I  will  !"  quivered  the  cap- 
tive, and  went  whither  he  was  urged.  He  ascended 
some  narrow  steps,  creaking  and  shaking  under  him. 
Then  he  was  led  through  a  passage  and  a  door  into  a 
room,  warm,  with  a  fire  heard  crackling  in  the  grate. 
Then  he  was  conducted  out  again  into  another  pas- 
sage by  a  different  door,  and  down  a  long  flight  of 
stone  steps :  these  brought  him  to  another  passage,  at 
the  end  of  which  another  door  was  unlocked,  unbarred, 
opened — and  he  felt  himself  once  more  in  the  open 
air.  He  had  scarcely  walked  a  few  steps,  however, 
before  he  was  conducted  through  another  door,  which, 
unlike  any  of  those  through  which  he  had  previously 
passed,  was  carefully  closed  and  locked  after  them. 
He  was  then  turned  round  till  he  was  quite  giddy  ;  in 
which  state  he  was  snatched  up  in  some  one's  power- 
ful arms,  carried  a  few  steps,  and  set  down  in  a  very 
close  warm  room.  He  heard  another  door  closed  on 
them,  and  several  voices  speaking  in  low  whispers.  A 
chair  was  placed  behind  him,  and  he  was  told  to  sit 
down  in  it.  "  You  are  now  in  the  presence,"  said  a 
voice,  in  a  low  determined  tone,  "  of  those  who  can 
murder  you,  and  bury  you,  so  that  none  shall  ever  find 
you  or  hear  of  you  again.  We  can  despatch  you  this 
instant :  our  hands  are  filled  with  weapons,  and  our 
hearts  have  no  fear.  We  shall  do  no  harm  to  you, 
however,  unless  you  are  foolish  and  obstinate  enough 
to  refuse  what  we  shall  require  of  you,  which  will  be 
easy  and  reasonable.  Quick,  decide  !"  continued  the 
voice,  with  sudden  and  startling  sternness  ;  M  will  you 
seize  a  chance  for  life  ?"  For  some  seconds  the 
wagoner  was  too  overpowered  with  agitation  to  speak : 
he  moved  his  hands,  as  far  as  he  was  able — his  arms 
being  tied — imploringly. 

"  Tell  un,  masters,  tell  un  what  I  am  to  do  !"  he 
groaned.  There  was  a  pause,  and  then  a  hurried 
whispering.  "First,  swear  by  the  great  God  that 
made  and  can  destroy  you,  that  if  you  should  leave  this 
place  alive,  you  will  never  in  any  way  make  known 


THE    WAGONER.  141 

what  has  been,  and  shall  yet  be,  done  to  you,  or  at- 
tempt to  find  us  out,  or  try  to  come  again  to  the  place 
to  which  you  may  hereafter  fancy  yourself  to  have 
been  taken.     Swear,  I  say  !"     The  wagoner  paused. 

"  Come,  you  hold  life  cheap,"  whispered  a  voice  ; 
and  he  heard  the  sound  of  a  pistol  cocking.  "  I 
swear — I  swear — I  swear  !"  he  faltered. 

"  On  your  knees,  kissing  the  Bible !"  The  wag- 
oner dropped  on  his  knees,  and  kissed  a  book  which 
was  held  to  his  lips. 

u  Again,"  resumed  the  terrible  speaker,  "  say  you 
wish  your  soul  may  perish  for  ever  if  you  break  your 
oath!"  "  I  do  !"  gasped  the  wagoner.  "And  now, 
dear  gentlemen,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  What  do  you 
want  ?  I  will  do  all  I  can  !"  There  was  a  pause.  The 
wagoner  sobbed,  and  the  tears  were  perceived  trick- 
ling down  from  under  the  bandage  which  was  over  his 
eyes. 

"  What  ails  you  ?"  inquired  some  one,  sternly.  "  I 
am  thinking  of  my  poor  old  mother — and  that  my  em- 
ployers will  call  me  a  thief  and  a  villain  !"  he  replied, 
crying  bitterly. 

"  You  may  soon  be  free,  perhaps,  if  you  will  do  your 
duty."  "  And  what  is  that  ?"  he  inquired,  faintly.  He 
received  no  answer. 

"  Remove  the  bandage  from  his  eyes,"  said  an  au- 
thoritative voice  ;  and  the  bandage  was  instantly  taken 
off.  He  found  himself  in  a  small  room,  lighted  by  one 
candle,  and  the  walls  covered  with  what  appeared  sheets 
and  blankets  hung  on  them,  as  if  to  prevent  the  cham- 
ber's being  recognised.  The  first  fearful  object,  how- 
ever, that  met  his  eyes,  was  a  pistol  held  close  be- 
fore him,  and  by  the  very  same  white  hand,  with  the 
ring  on,  that  he  had  noticed  when  he  was  first  seized. 
The  person  who  thus  menaced  him  was  sitting  close  in 
front  of  him  on  a  table,  wore  a  white  coat,  buttoned  up 
to  the  chin,  and  a  white  nightcap  was  drawn  over  his 
face  down  to  his  mouth,  (as  when  a  man  is  hanged,) 
evidently  to  conceal  his  features.     There  were  three 


142  THE    WAGONER. 

others  in  the  room,  all  effectually,  and  indeed  similarly 
disguised. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?"  inquired  the  person  who 
held  the  pistol  in  his  hand. 

"  Forster,"  replied  the  wagoner,  promptly. 

"  Forster  V1  echoed  several  voices,  in  tones  of  con- 
sternation. 

"  Is  it  really  so  ?"  inquired  the  person  opposite  to 
him,  agitatedly — and  lowering  the  pistol  he  held,  till  it 
touched  the  wagoner's  bosom — "is  it  so,  in  the  presence 
of  God,  on  your  oath  ?" 

"  It  is  !",replied  the  wagoner,  firmly,  "  the  only  name 
I  was  ever  called  by — Richard  Forster." 

"  I  will  send  you  perjured  into  hell,  if  you  speak 
false  :   is  it  Forster  V 

11  Yes  !  yes  !  yes  !",  repeated  the  wagoner,  solemnly, 
looking  upward.  The  pistol  was  removed;  the  per- 
son who  held  it  suddenly  struck  down  the  candle  from 
the  table,  and  the  room  was  left  in  darkness. 

"  Pho  !"  exclaimed  the  voice  that  had  all  along  been 
speaking,  in  a  low  fierce  tone  ;  "  we  are  wrong,  after 
all !"  There  was  a  pause,  and  a  hurried  consultation 
in  whispers  for  a  second  or  two.  "  What  shall  we  do 
with  him  ?"  the  affrighted  wagoner  heard  asked,  but 
could  not  catch  the  reply. 

"  My  poor  fellow,"  said  the  voice  now  familiar  to 
him,  "  we  have  unfortunately  mistaken  our  man.  We 
have  frightened  you  nearly  out  of  your  senses,  and  all 
in  mistake  !  You  are  not  the  man  we  want ;  you  can- 
not do  what  we  wish.  Here  is  a  trifle  by  way  of 
making  you  some  amends  ;"  and  several  pieces,  ap- 
parently guineas,  were  put  into  his  hand.  "  And  if 
you  will  tell  us  the  name  of  the  place  where  you  live, 
you  shall  have  twenty  pounds  before  the  new  year. 
We  shall  not  hurt  a  hair  of  your  head,  but  shall  put 
the  bandage  round  your  eyes  once  more,  and  lead  you 
safely  where  we  found  you.  Don't  be  afraid ;  only 
remember — remember  your  oath !" 


THE    WAGONER.  143 

"  What  |T  inquired  the  wagoner,  "  are  you  going  to 
release  me  ?" 

"  Yes,  directly." 

The  wagoner  fell  at  full  length  on  the  floor,  in  a 
swoon.  "When  he  recovered  possession  of  his  senses 
he  found  himself  seated  in  a  vehicle,  driving  on  rapidly, 
situated  exactly  as  he  was  before.  The  first  words  he 
heard  were,  M  You  dropped  four  guineas  out  of  your 
hand  in  the  chapel :  we  have  put  them  in  your  pocket, 
where  you  will  find  them  when  we  leave  you." 

This  was  spoken  in  a  very  kindly  manner  ;  and 
much  more  was  said  by  the  same  speaker,  expressive 
of  sorrow  for  having  so  needlessly  frightened  him,  and 
assuring  him  that  he  had  been  mistaken  for  some  one 
else.  He  was  told  again,  that  he  would  receive  twen- 
ty pounds  before  Newyear's  day ;  but  that,  if  ever  he 
opened  his  lips  to  any  one  breathing,  about  what  had 
happened  to  him,  or  give  information  about  it  to  mag- 
istrates, or  did  anything  to  lead  to  inquiry,  he  would, 
as  surely  as  he  was  now  about  to  be  released,  be  shot 
writhin  twelve  hours  of  his  doing  so,  wherever  he  might 
be,  in  whatever  part  of  England,  how  many  soever 
guards  and  constables  he  might  get  about  him.  "  "We 
have  got  a  man,"  continued  the  voice,  "  who  will,  un- 
known to  you,  watch  you  for  months  after  this,  to  see 
if  you  break  your  oath.  You  will  never  find  him  out, 
and  yet  he  will  be  always  near  you  to  do  our  wish. 
He  is  a  kind  of  devil,  and  is  charged  to  kill  you,  if  you 
do  contrary  to  what  you  have  sworn.  Remember  all 
this,  Richard  Forster  ;  and  be  but  honest  and  true,  and 
it  shall  be  well  with  you  for  the  rest  of  your  life." 
After  near  an  hour's  driving,  the  vehicle  stopped.  The 
wagoner  was  again  addressed  :  — 

u  You  are  now  within  about  fifty  yards  of  the  place 
from  which  we  took  you.  We  shall  set  you  in  the 
hedjjeside,  with  this  bandage  still  on  vour  eves,  but 
shall  remove  the  cords  from  your  arms,  and  so  leave 
you.  You  must  neither  stir,  nor  remove  the  bandage 
from   your  eyes,  for    an  hour,  as  nearlv  as  you  can 


144  THE    WAGONER. 

guess.  If  you  do  you  will  be  shot ;  for  we  shall  leave 
a  man  to  stand  sentinel  over  you  for  half  an  hour." 
The  bewildered  wagoner  was  then  led  out  of  the  ve- 
hicle, his  arms  were  unbound,  and  he  was  placed  by 
the  hedgeside,  as  he  had  been  told. 

"  Now,  remember !"  said  the  voice,  and  the  hands 
of  the  speaker  shook  those  of  the  wagoner ;  "  break 
your  oath,  and  the  grave  will  yawn  for  you  the  next 
moment.  Farewell !"  The  wagoner  heard  the  sound 
of  retreating  footsteps,  then  the  door  of  a  vehicle  clo- 
sing, and  it  drove  fast  away,  but  in  an  opposite  direc- 
tion from  what  he  had  expected. 

The  wagoner  sat  still  as  a  mouse,  scarce  daring 
even  to  breathe,  much  less  shift  his  posture,  lest  it 
should  be  construed  into  an  intention  of  rising  before 
his  time.  It  might  be  all  a  farce  about  the  man  left  to 
watch  him  ;  but  what  if  it  were  not  1  Overcome  with 
fear,  fatigue,  and  cold,  he  fell  fast  asleep.  He  was 
woke  by  some  one  suddenly  pulling  off  the  bandage 
from  his  eyes,  and  shouting  in  his  ears,  at  the  same 
time  shaking  him  violently  by  the  shoulder,  "  Why, 
Dick !  Dick !  Dick  !  where  hast  thou  been  ?  Dick 
Forster — hey,  hem — stare  at  me  !  I  will  do  thee  no 
hurt,  God  knows  :  but  where  hast  been  ?  why  and  how 
here  ?"  said  Bill  Fowler,  one  of  the  two  whom  Fors- 
ter had  left  drinking  at  the  Hunting  Horn,  and  who 
now,  after  a  long  and  terrified  search,  stood  scrutini- 
zing his  companion's  features  by  the  help  of  a  lantern. 
The  wagon  had  arrived  safe,  though  unattended,  at  its 
nearest  point  of  destination,  followed  shortly  by  the  ar- 
rival of  the  two  wagoners  who  had  been  left  at  Shrews- 
bury :  and  then  the  startling  question  was,  "  Where  is 
Dick  Forster  ?"  Unable  to  answer  the  question,  they, 
with  several  others,  instantly  set  out  in  search  of  the 
missing  wagoner. 

"  Why,  man,  where  have  you  been  ?  what  have  you 
been  doing  1  what  has  come  to  you  ?  who  has  put  this 
bandage  before  your  eyes  ?  how  long  have  you  been 
here  ?"  were  questions  asked  in  a  breath,  without  time 


THE    WAGONER.  145 

given  for  answers,  even  if  Forster  had  been  able,  or  so 
disposed.  He  stared  stupidly  at  the  man  who  ad- 
dressed him,  and  muttered  some  such  incoherent  words 
as — "  Don't — don't  shoot  me,  kind  sir  ! — for  God's 
sake  !  It  was  not  I  that  took  off  the  bandage  !  For 
our  Lord's  sake,  don't  murder  me  !  I  will  never  tell !" 
His  companion  recoiled  from  him  as  he  uttered  these 
affrighted  exclamations,  and  stared  at  him  with  un- 
speakable concern  and  wonder. 

"  Why,  Dick  !  Dick  !"  said  he,  again  shaking  him 
by  the  shoulder,  "  don't  'ee  know  un  !  don't  'ee  know 
where  thou  art  ?  where  the  wagon  is  ?  Egad !  art  mad, 
or  drunk,  or  devil-struck  ?"  Dick  made  no  answer ; 
but  stretched  out  his  arms  and  legs,  and  groaned,  as 
through  exhaustion.  His  companion  began  to  get 
alarmed,  and  his  own  apprehensions  were  aggravated 
on  seeing,  owing  to  a  sudden  change  in  Dick's  posture, 
that  there  rolled  out  of  his  pocket  several  guineas. 

"  Why,  Dick  Forster  !  why — why. —  why"  —  he 
stammered,  turning  pale,  and  holding  his  lantern  down 
towards  the  golden  coins ;  "  who  gave  thee  these  ? 
Where  didst  thou  get  them  ?  Hast  thou  been  out  a — 
a — a — robbing  ?  or — hast — tell  me,  Dick  Forster — or 
I'll  go  and  fetch  some  one  that  shall  make  thee  !"  and 
he  shook  him  violently.  Dick  began  to  come  a  little  to 
his  senses  on  being  so  roughly  handled,  and  was  an- 
swering some  question  rather  angrily  put  to  him,  when 
there  was  heard  a  faint  rustling  by  the  other  side  of 
the  hedge.  Dick  suddenly  clasped  his  arms  around 
his  companion,  his  eyes  glared  on  him  with  wildness, 
and  he  gasped — "  Save  me  !  save — save  me  !  he'll 
shoot  me  !  he'll  murder  me  !"  His  companion  stared 
at  him,  first  with  an  alarmed,  and  then  a  distrustful  air, 
folded  his  arms  on  his  breast,  and,  with  a  resolute  air, 
said  to  him,  "  Now,  Dick,  may  I  die  here,  this  blessed 
Christmas  morning,  if  I  do  not  think  thou  hast  done  ill 
since  we  met !"  He  paused  with  agitation.  "  Speak, 
man!"  he  resumed;  "this  money;  where  didst  get 
it  ?  for  what  ?  from  whom  ?  Is  all  this  thy  frighted 
g  13 


146  THE    WAGONER. 

manner  but  a  deceiving  of  me  ?  Come,  come*  Dick ! 
thou  shalt  tell  to  a  magistrate,  or  my  name  is  not  Bill 
Fowler !" 

Dick  slowly  lifted  himself  up,  and  clasped  his  com- 
panion's hand,  whispering  faintly,  "Bill  Fowler*  let  us 
leave  this  lonely  place — help  me  to  the  high  road — 
then  to  some  house  or  other,  and  I  will  tell  thee  all ! 
It  will  make  thy  hair  stand  like  a  hedgehog's  !" 

*'  Well — come,  now — that  is  reasonable  enough  !  let 
us  away !  and  as  for  any  one  shooting  thee,  I  would 
not  run  from  the  great  devil  himself,  with  a  pistol  in 
each  hand.  Come — I  long  to  hear  thy  story,  for  I 
much  dread  me  it  will  be  a  black  one  !  But  come !" 
At  that  instant  a  pistol  was  discharged  from  the  other 
side  of  the  hedge,  and  the  bullet  whizzed  close  past  the 
astounded  wagoners.  Fowler  fell  down  with  the  sud- 
denness of  the  shock,  but  found  his  l!;et  again  in  a 
trice,  and  made  desperate  but  fruitless  efforts  to  get 
through  the  high  and  thick  hedge.  All  the  while  he 
heard  the  sounds  of  one  running  as  it  were  for  his  life, 
across  the  frozen  furrows  of  a  newly  ploughed  field ; 
and  though  tantalized  and  irritated  almost  to  phrensy, 
he  was  obliged  at  length  to  give  up  the  thought  of  pur- 
suit, and  hastened  his  companion  to  the  high  road. 
Half  dragging  and  half  carrying  him,  he  succe-eded  in 
bringing  Forster  to  a  small  farmhouse,  about  a  quar- 
ter of  a  mile  down  the  road,  where  they  were  both  of 
them  known.  Though  it  was  five  o'clock,  and  Christ- 
mas morning,  they  found  the  good  people  stirring. 
Each  of  them  got  a  little  ale,  the  good  effects  of  which 
were  soon  visible  on  Forster,  for  he  began  to  look 
about  him  with  some  composure.  "  Where  is  the 
wagon  gone  ?"  was  the  first  sensible  question  he 
asked.  "'Tis  now  standing  at  Job  Winton's,"  was 
the  reply. 

"  And  where  is  Thomas  ?"     "  He  is,  I  warrant  him, 
out,  searching  for  thee,  now." 

"  And  what  is  the  hour  ?"     "  A  trifle  past  five.    And 
now,  Dick,"  said  his  companion,  no  longer  able  to  con- 


THE    WAGONER.  147 

ceal  his  impatience,  u  tell  us  all  that  hath  happened 
to  thee." 

14  No,"  replied  Dick,  firmly,  "  I  will  not  tell  thee  a 
word  now,  and  here  ;  but  take  me  before  a  magistrate, 
and  I  will  tell  thee  and  him  all.  I  have  sworn  before 
God,  it  is  true,  that  I  would  not  tell  a  word,  and  may 
be  shot  for  doing  so  ;  but  1  care  not — I  will  ease  my 
soul,  and  put  my  life  into  God's  hands.  Oh,  Will,  Will ! 
when  we  parted  last  evening,  at  the  Hunting  Horn,  hovv 
small  thought  had  I  of  what  would  befall  me  !"  Bill 
made  no  answer,  but  grew  visibly  paler,  and  wiped  the 
perspiration  from  his  forehead  :  he  rose  from  his  seat, 
and  stepped  to  and  fro  across  the  small  room  in  which 
they  were  sitting,  with  great  agitation  in  his  manner. 

H  Well,  Dick,"  he  muttered,  "  I  don't  know  what 
the  ending  of  all  this  will  be  ;  but  I  fear  for  thee  !  I 
dread  me  the  devil  hath  been  at  thee  !  'Tis  said  he 
walks  these  parts  on  Christmas  morn !"  He  presently 
resumed  his  seat,  and  tried  again  to  extract  his  com- 
panion's secret  from  him  ;  but  in  vain.  Dick  was  in- 
flexible :  he  took  four  guineas  out  of  his  pocket,  and 
gave  them  into  Bill's  hand,  saying,  "  I  don't  value  this 
gold.  It  may  be  gotten  ill  by  those  who  gave  it  me. 
Do  thou  keep  it,  and  see  what  the  magistrate  will  say 
about  it ;  for  to  one  we  will  go  this  day,  or  my  name  is 
not  Richard  Forster." 

By  two  o'clock  that  afternoon,  the  two  wagoners 
found  their  way  to  the  house  of  a  county  magistrate,  to 
whom  Dick  gave  a  full  account  of  what  had  befallen 
him.  His  words  were  taken  down  ;  but  there  was 
such  an  air  of  exaggeration — of  blank  improbability 
about  the  whole,  that  it  was  evident  the  magistrate  did 
not  attach  overmuch  credit  to  it.  What  could  he  do  in 
the  matter?  The  wagoner  swore  that,  if  his  life  de- 
pended en  it,  he  could  not  tell  by  which  of  the  four 
cross  roads  he  had  gone  or  come  ;  he  had  never  seen 
the  faces  of  those  who  had  so  mysteriously  seized  him  ; 
he  could  not  describe  the  voices  of  any  one  that  spoke 
to  him. 

g2 


148  THE    WAGONER. 

"  So,  they  were  surprised  to  hear  that  your  name  was 
Forster,  eh  ?"     "  Yes,  your  worship." 

"  They  said  you  were  mistaken  for  some  one  else  !* 
"  Yes,  your  worship." 

"  Now,  do  you  know  any  one  among  your  associates 
that  has  a  name  anything  like  your  own  ?"  inquired 
the  magistrate,  as  if  a  sudden  thought  had  struck  him. 
"  Think  a  little,  my  man,"  he  continued,  seeing  the 
wagoner  very  thoughtful,  and  rubbing  his  forehead 
with  a  puzzled  air.  "  No,  no,"  replied  the  wagoner, 
at  length  ;  "  I  don't  know  any  one  of  my  name,  nor  any 
one  like  it."  fc 

"  Oh,  please  your  worship,"  said  the  other,  "  I  hope 
your  worship's  honour  will  forgive  me — but  my  name 
is  Fowler ;  but  that,  again,  as  your  worship  knows,  is 
not  Forster."  "  So  I  should  suppose,"  drawled  the 
magistrate,  with  a  smile,  looking  at  his  watch,  and  then 
taking  down  the  name. 

"  How  do  you  spell  it,  my  man  ?"  Fowler  repeated 
the  letters  of  his  name  separately. 

"And  are  you  a  wagoner,  like  your  unfortunate 
friend,  here  V  u  Yes,  your  worship,  and  go  the  same 
road,  and  serve  the  same  master." 

"  You  neither  of  you  know  any  one  that  is  likely  to 
have  ill  blood  against  you."  "  Lord  love  your  wor- 
ship— no,  your  worship !"  replied  both  in  a  breath. 

"  I  hope  you  are  an  honest,  sober  fellow,  my  friend  ?" 
inquired  the  magistrate  of  Fowler,  amused  by  his 
naivete  and  eagerness.  Fowler  hung  down  his  head 
and  blushed.  "  Why,  please  your  worship,  as  for  the 
matter  of  honesty,  I  am  as  honest  (as  one  might  rever- 
ently say)  as  your  worship  yourself;  but  I  own — I 
humbly  say — "  he  continued,  with  an  embarrassed 
air. 

"  Aha !"  exclaimed  the  magistrate,  quite  tickled ; 
u  you  like  your  glass,  eh  ?  a  friendly  glass  ?"  "  Not 
exactly,  your  worship  ;  give  me  a  plain  jug — a  plain 
jug,  with  ale  in  it !" 

His  worship  and  his  clerk  laughed  heartily. 


THE    WAGONER.  149 

M  And.  pray,  who  are  your  father  and  mother?  Where 
do  they  live  X'     •*  Both  dead,  your  worship,  long  ago ! 

M  Richard  Forster,'"  said  the  magistrate,  "  a  word  or 
two  more  with  you  about  this  strange  story  of  yours. 
Do  you  think  you  could  recognise  the  room  in  which 
you  were,  or  the  yard,  doors,  and  passages  through 
which  you  were  led,  if  you  were  to  be  taken  to  them 
again  ?"  4i  No,  your  worship,  on  the  oath  of  a  true 
man.  Your  worship  will  recollect  that  I  was  not  only 
blindfolded,  but  turned  round  and  round,  like  a  cockchaf- 
fer ;  besides  being  all  the  while  nearly  dead  of  fright." 

;'  Why,  can't  you  say  whether  you  went  towards  the 
north,  south,  east,  or  west?"     "  No,  your  worship." 

"  Did  you  hear  any  bleating  of  sheep — any  snorting 
or  neighing  of  horses — any  lowing  of  cows,  when  you 
passed  through  what  you  took  to  be  a  farmyard?" 
';  No,  your  worship,  nothing  like  it." 

"  Did  it  seem  a  large  or  a  small  house — or  what 
sort  of  place  ?"  "  Please  your  worship,  I  know  about 
as  much  of  it  as  a  dead  man  knows  of  the  shape  of  his 
grave  !" 

"  Humph !"  exclaimed  the  magistrate,  completely 
nonplussed,  rubbing  his  hand  over  his  forehead. 

';  Oh,  please  your  worship  !"  said  Dick,  suddenly ; 
'•'  I  forgot  one  thing.  I  saw  the  hand  of  one  man 
twice  ;  first  when  he  seized  me  by  my  wagon,  and  then 
when  he  held  the  pistol  to  my  breast  in  the  little  room  ; 
and  marked  specially  that  it  was  fair  and  white,  like  a 
gentleman's,  and  had  a  shining  ring  upon  one  finger." 
k>  Av !  ay  !  ay !  are  you  sure  of  that  ?"  inquired  the 
magistrate,  with  much  interest  ;  "  a  gentleman's  hand, 
with  a  brisrht  ring  on  ?  One  might  make  something  of 
that !"     He  paused. 

"  And  yet — pho  !  What  is  such  a  trifle  as  that,  to 
lead  to  discovery  ?  There  must  be  something  strange 
behind  all  this,  I  am  confident !'! 

The  simple  fact  was,  that  the  magistrate  was  com- 
pletely at  a  loss.  What,  indeed,  could  be  done  in  the 
matter?     What  great  harm  had  been  done,  after  all? 

13-* 


150  THE   WAGONER. 

To  be  sure,  there  were  some  symptoms  of  threatened 
outrage  on  another  of  his  majesty's  subjects,  when  he 
could  be  found ;  but,  as  for  the  present  complainant, 
he  had  been  clearly  much  more  frightened  than  hurt. 
Here  he  was,  sound  and  whole,  richer  by  four  guineas 
tTTan  he  was  before,  unable  to  give  a  spark  of  available 
formation  about  his  seizure,  capture,  or  journey, 
{hat  could  be  done  in  the  affair  ?  The  magistrate 
mew  not.  However,  he  decided  on  sending  a  memo- 
rial of  the  whole  affair  to  the  secretary  of  state's  office, 
and  so  throwing  the  business  on  the  shoulders  of  gov- 
ernment. He  directed  the  wagoner,  in  the  mean  while, 
to  return  to  his  ordinary  work,  and  granted  him  the 
service  of  two  constables,  to  ride  all  the  way  inside 
his  wagon  to  London,  and  back  again,  with  firearms, 
which  they  were  authorized  in  using  without  hesita- 
tion, in  case  of  emergency.  His  worship  also  direct- 
ed Forster  to  keep  the  four  guineas,  and  gave  Bill 
Fowler  half  a  crown,  to  enable  him  to  get  a  "  plain 
jug"  of  good  ale.  And  so  the  affair  ended,  as  far  as 
the  wagoner  was  concerned.  The  result  of  the  appli- 
cation to  the  secretary  of  state,  was  an  order  to  adver- 
tise the  affair  over  the  whole  county,  offering  a  reward, 
on  the  part  of  government,  of  100Z.  for  the  discovery 
of  the  perpetrator  of  so  extraordinary  an  outrage  ; 
which  was  done,  but  in  vain.  Not  a  tittle,  not  a  glimpse 
of  evidence  was  obtained,  by  wnich  to  trace  or  fasten 
the  occurrence  anywhere  ;  and  after  a  fortnight  or  so 
the  affair  was  forgotten  by  the  public,  in  spite  of  the 
stimulating  paragraphs  that,  as  in  our  day,  ran  the 
round  of  the  papers,  "  vires  acquirentes  eundo."  The 
wagoner,  Richard  Forster  himself,  resumed  his  or- 
dinary business  without  interruption,  and  gradually 
dropped  his  fear,  treating  the  whole  affair,  when  it  was 
mentioned  to  him,  rather  as  a  joke  than  otherwise. 

One  word,  in  passing,  concerning  the  magistrate. 
The  first  thing  he  did,  after  dismissing  the  wagoner,  as 
has  been  described,  and  entering  his  library,  was  to 
take  off  his  gloves,  hastily  pluck  off  a  ring  from  his 


THE    WAGONER.  15] 

little  finger,  and  fling  it  into  the  fire  grate.  "  Cursed 
little  traitor !"  he  exclaimed,  pale  and  gasping  with 
fury,  "  lie  there  and  be  burned  !"  He  sat  down  in  a 
chair ;  the  perspiration  started  upon  his  brow,  and  his 
fist  clenched  with  involuntary  emotion.  He  presently 
started  from  his  seat,  and  walked  to  and  fro  in  pro- 
digious agitation.  His  was  the  hand  that  the  wagoner 
had  spoken  of;  he  it  was  that  seized  him  by  the  throa^ 
and  presented  the  pistol  to  his  breast ! 

This  atrocious,  daring,  and  unaccountable  transac- 
tion soon  slipped  from  public  recollection,  and  ceased, 
as  was  remarked  above,  to  annoy  or  disturb  even  Dick 
Forster,  the  wagoner.  It  served  little  other  purpose, 
indeed,  so  far  as  Dick  was  concerned,  than  to  make  him 
the  most  popular  man  on  the  whole  road  from  Shrews- 
bury to  London  ;  for  everybody  was  curious  to  see  and 
converse  with  the  man  who  had  experienced  so  extraor- 
dinary an  adventure.  The  coachmen  and  guards  of 
the  various  coaches  took  an  interest  in  him  ;  nay,  even 
the  very  mail-coachman  himself,  that  king  of  the  road, 
brief  as  was  his  time  for  stoppages  by  the  way,  more 
than  once  twitched  Dick  almost  off  his  feet,  to  show 
him  to  some  one  or  other  of  his  inside  passengers  as 
the  man  that  had  had  "  the  hextra-hordi-nary  'ventur 
t'other  day."  It  is  almost  superfluous  to  state  with 
what  ridiculous  glosses  and  variations  Dick  told  his 
story  ;  for  how  can  any  man,  gifted  with  a  spark  of 
fancy,  forbear  to  fill  the  maw  of  curiosity  gaping  be- 
fore him  ?  So  Dick,  "  the  kidnapped,"  as  he  had  been 
called,  soon  acquired  the  less  romantic  name  of  "  Ly- 
ing Dick,"  when  his  various  auditors  discovered,  time 
after  time,  his  point  blank  contradictions.  Many  be- 
gan to  surmise  that  there  was  no  foundation  in  truth 
whatever  for  Dick's  narrative :  but  the  circumstance 
of  the  four  guineas,  and  the  condition  in  which  he  was 
actually  discovered  by  his  fellow-wagoner,  sufficed  to 
vindicate  at  least  the  basis  of  poor  Dick's  flourishing 
superstructures. 

One  incident,  worthy  of  record,  occurred  on  the  oc- 


152  THE    WAGONER. 

casion  of  one  of  Dick  Forster's  numerous  taproom  pre- 
lections. He  was  telling  his  story  for  the  tenth  time, 
at  least,  at  the  Hunting  Horn  inn,  in  Shrewsbury,  about 
six  weeks  after  >the  events  took  place,  before  a  tap- 
room filled  with  a  breathless  auditory ;  and  when  he 
had  got  down  to  the  concluding  incident,  about  the  pis- 
tol shot  fired  from  behind  the  hedge  at  himself  and 
Fowler,  he  was  pleased  to  say,  "  There  were  at  least 
three  shots  fired  at  me — " 

"  Three  !  You  lie  !"  said  a  man  who  had  been  lis- 
tening to  him.  The  eyes  of  all  present  were  in  an 
instant  fixed  on  the  uncourteous  interrupter.  There 
was  a  pause.  Dick's  character  for  veracity  had  not 
yet  been  flyblown ;  and  the  parish  clerk  of  Shrews- 
bury, who  was  a  very  devout  and  frequent  attendant  at 
that  place  of  godly  resort,  the  Hunting  Horn,  and  a 
shrewd  man  to  boot,  pointedly  inquired,  "  My  good 
friend,  how.  do  you  happen  to  know  that  Dick  Forster 
has  told  a  lie  f ' 

"Ay — ay — ay — how  do  you?"  echoed  many  voices, 
and  Dick's  among  the  rest ;  whose  temporary  embar- 
rassment seemed  suddenly  transferred  ^with  tenfold  in- 
tensity to  the  man  who  had  interrupted  him.  He  gave 
such  a  poor  account  of  himself,  that  a  constable,  who 
happened  to-  be  present,  and  was  gradually  inflaming 
his  imagination  with  the  "  100Z.  reward,"  unable  to  con- 
tain himself  any  longer,  rushed  up  to  his  man,  plucked 
out  his  staff  of  office,  seized  him  by  the  collar,  and 
shouted,  "  Sir,  you're  my  prisoner!"  The  suspected 
man  was  had  before  the  magistrate  in  a  trice — the  con- 
stable made  his  statement,  corroborated  by  a  host  of 
others — the  man  was  remanded,  listening  to  the  charge 
with  derision,  and  in  silence  ;  and  at  length,  much  to 
the  mortification  of  the  constable,  discharged.  He 
soon  dissipated  all  suspicion  by  freely  conversing  with 
any  one  who  questioned  him  on  the  subject,  and  say- 
ing, with  a  laugh,  that  his  only  ground  for  making  the 
obnoxious  observation,  was  his  conviction  that  "  Dick 
Forster  was  gammoning  them ;"  for  that  he  had  him- 


THE    WAQONEiU  153 

self  heard  Dick  tell  his  tale  in  twenty  different  ways, 
and  always,  till  then,  had  been  content  with  one  pistol 
as  the  wind-up ! 

"  Then  you  really  know  nothing  about  the  matter  ?" 
inquired  the  spectacled  clerk.  ';  No  more  than  your 
prayer  book  of  your  piety,  Mister  Snore  V  replied  the 
man,  and  was  teased  no  more  by  such  inquiries. 

Yet  was  this  man,  as  it  transpired  long  after- 
ward, the  very  one  who  had  stood  sentinel  over  Dick 
Forster,  and  fired  at  him  from  the  other  side  of  the 
hedge  !  He  was,  further,  the  first  man  who  had  seized 
and  thrown  him  down,  and  kept  at  his  side  till  the  mo- 
ment of  discharging  his  pistol,  as  has  been  told.  What 
a  mysterious  length  of  interval  does  Providence  often 
interpose  between  the  perpetration  and  discovery  of 
crime ! 

Passing  over  a  period  of  more  than  two  months,  we 
come  to  the  morning  of  the  8th  of  March,  1761.  It 
was  between  the  hours  of  three  and  four  o'clock,  and 
the  weather  was  miserably  inclement.  A  cold  east- 
erly wind  swept  howling  down  the  road,  driving  fast- 
falling  piercing  sleet  full  into  the  face  of  a  man  wTho, 
almost  perishing  with  cold,  poor  fellow  !  sat  on  the 
shaft  of  a  small  cart  laden  with  greens,  scarce  able  to 
hold  together  with  his  benumbed  fingers  the  two  ends 
of  an  old  piece  of  sacking,  to  protect  himself  from  the 
wet.  It  was  pitch  dark,  and  the  carter's  thoughts  were 
sad  and  cheerless.  While  driving  slowly  on  his  way 
to  Wrexham,  from  which  he  was  distant  about  eight  or 
nine  miles,  and  to  the  market  of  which  place  his  cart  load 
of  vegetables  was  consigned,  he  suddenly  leaped  off 
the  shaft  on  which  he  had  been  sitting  ;  for  he  heard 
himself  called  by  his  name  from  the  right  side  of  the 
hedge.  He  was  almost  petrified  with  surprise  and 
alarm,  and  stood  motionless  a  moment  or  two,  while 
his  cart  drove  slowly  past  him. 

"Fowler!  William  Fowler!  speak,  for  your  life !" 
was  repeated  in  a  louder  and  more  distinct  tone  ;  and 
the    astounded  carter  caught  sight  of  two  or  three 

g  3 


154  THE    WAGONER. 

figures  approaching  him  at  but  a  few  yards'  distance. 
A  recollection  of  his  friend  Dick  Forster's  adventure 
flashed  across  him,  and  off  he  sprung  down  the  road  at 
the  top  of  his  speed,  in  a  contrary  direction  to  that  in 
which  his  horse  and  cart  were  moving.  He  made  for 
a  farmhouse,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off,  where  he 
was  known,  and  whither  he  was  pursued,  but  by  how 
many  he  knew  not.  He  was  fast  outstripping  his  mys- 
terious pursuers,  when  one  of  them  called  out,  "  Stop, 
Fowler,  stop,  before  a  bullet  overtake  you  !"  Fowler 
flew  forward,  however,  like  the  wind,  but  suddenly 
stumbled  over  a  large  stone  lying  in  the  highway.  He 
was  in  the  act  of  rising,  and  again  rushing  forward, 
when  the  report  of  a  pistol,  fired  at  but  a  short  distance 
from  behind  him,  and  the  ball  of  which  he  thought  he 
heard  hissing  close  past  him,  brought  him  to  his  knees  ; 
when  two  men,  quite  breathless,  made  up  to  him. 
"  You  d — d  fool  and  coward  !"  exclaimed  one  of  the 
men,  panting  for  breath,  "  take  that  for  the  trouble 
you've  given  us  !"  and  he  hit  the  poor  carter  a  heavy 
blow  on  the  side  of  the  head.  Fowler,  however,  was 
a  little  of  a  bruiser ;  and  springing  to  his  feet  in  a  mo- 
ment, he  levelled  his  assailant  to  the  ground  with  a 
swinging  blow  between  the  eyes,  and  was  preparing  to 
do  the  same  for  the  other,  when  a  third  suddenly  stole 
up  to  him  from  behind,  and  with  the  butt  end  of  a  horse- 
whip or  walking  stick,  felled  him  at  one  stroke  to  the 
ground,  where  he  lay  completely  stunned.  When  he 
recovered  his  senses,  he  affrightedly  found  himself  in 
precisely  similar  circumstances  to  those  which  he  had 
so  often  heard  his  friend  Forster  describe.  He  was 
moving  on  rapidly  in  some  kind  of  vehicle,  with  his 
eyes  bandaged,  his  arms  fastened  to  his  side,  his  legs 
tied  together,  and  a  gag  in  his  mouth.  He  attempted 
to  rise  from  his  seat,  bound  as  he  was  ;  but  was  in- 
stantly forced  down  by  the  two  men  between  whom 
he  sat.  He  moaned  and  gasped  piteously  ;  when  one 
of  them  addressed  him,  saying,  that  if  he  was  not  a 
fool,  he  must  know  that  all  resistance  was  useless  ;  and 


THE    WAGONER.  155 

that  if  he  would  but  hold  his  peace,  the  gag  would  be 
taken  out  of  his  mouth.  "  If  you  mean  to  be  silent, 
nod  your  head  three  times,"  continued  the  voice.  He 
complied,  and  the  gag  was  the  moment  after  with- 
drawn. 

"  For  pity's  sake,  what  have  I  done  ?"  he  commenced. 

*'  This  pistol  and  your  head  must  become  close  ac- 
quaintance, unless  you  are  silent,"  said  the  gruff  voice 
which  had  addressed  him  from  the  first.  Fowler  sul- 
lenly resigned. himself  in  silence  to  his  fate,  which  he 
expected  would  be  murder.  After  a  long  interval  of 
twenty  minutes,  during  which  not  a  syllable  was 
spoken  by  any  one  within  the  coach,  he  was  a^ain  ad- 
dressed :  "  There  are  three  persons  in  this  coach  be- 
sides yourself,  who  have  each  loaded  pistols,  which 
will  be  fired  at  you  if  you  make  the  least  uproar  or  re- 
sistance. We  shall  shortly  alight,  and  you  must  suffer 
us  to  do  with  you  what  we  wish ;  and  then  we  will  not 
hurt  a  hair  of  your  head.  It  will  be  useless  for  you  to 
cry  out;  for  we  take. you  to  a  house  which  is  at  least 
a  mile  from  all  others,  and  there  will  be  none  but  our- 
selves. So,  remember  what  your  life  depends  upon  !" 
concluded  the  voice  ;  and  presently  the  coach  drew 
up.  Fowler  was  then  led  out,  his  legs  having  been 
first  untied,  and  conducted  through  the  same  places 
■which  had  been  traversed  by  his  predecessor,  Forster, 
till  he  was  finally  led  into  the  same  room  where  Fors- 
ter had  been  sworn  and  questioned,  as  described.  He 
was  placed  in  a  chair ;  and  the  same  voice  that  had 
spoken  to  Dick  Forster  proceeded  to  address  Fowler, 
and  in  a  similar  strain  of  solemn  menace.  "  That 
wretched  man,  Richard  Forster,"  he  was  told,  "  has 
deceived  us,  and  broken  his  tremendous  oath,  taken  in 
this  very  room  ;  for  which  he  must,  and  will,  certainly 
die.  There  is  one  even  now,  waiting  from  hour  to 
hour,  from  day  to  day,  a  favourable  moment  to  dismiss 
him."  Fowlers  blood  ran  cold.  "  But  as  for  you — 
we  are  safe.     There  neither  is,  nor  can  be,  any  mis- 


156  THE    WAGONER. 

take   her,e  :  so,  at  once  to  business.     Your  name  is 
William  Fowler  ?"     "  Yes." 

"Married?"     "No." 

"  Are  your  father  and  mother  both  dead  V1     "  Yes." 

"  Are  you  an  only  son  V*     "  Yes." 
,      "  What  do  you  do  for  a  living  ?"     "  I  am  gardener 
and  servant  to  Thomas  Tripster,  a  farmer   at  West 
Severn." 

"  What  do  you  get  a  week"?"  "Eight  shillings,  and 
board  and  lodging." 

"You  would  like  to  have  more  than  a  pound  a  week, 
without  any  trouble,  wouldn't  you  V1     Fowler  paused. 

"  Do  you  hear  me,  sir  V  repeated  the  voice,  more 
sternly.  "  Yes,  I  hear.  I  should  like  it,  if  it  were 
honestly  earned."     There  was  a  pause. 

"  You  wouldn't  mind,  I  dare  say,  whether  you  spent 
more  than  a  pound  a  week  in  England,  or  abroad  V 
"  Abroad .'"  echoed  Fowler. 

"  Yes ;  I  say,  abroad.  America,  for  instance." 
"  What !  must  I  then  be  sent  out  of  the  country  like  a 
rogue  V 

"  Silence  !  Be  obedient :  answer  the  question  put 
to  you."  Fowler  continued  silent,  however,  and  was 
observed  to  clench  both  fists,  though  his  arms  were 
pinioned  to  his  sides. 

"  Have  you  heard  the  question  put  to  you,  Fowler  ?" 
inquired  the  voice.  "  Yes,"  replied  Fowler,  in  sullen 
monosyllable. 

"  Well,  William  Fowler,  since  this  is  then  your  hu- 
mour, we  must  take  our  measures  accordingly.  We 
will  give  you  five  minutes  by  a  watch,  to  consider  your 
answer  to  the  question  which  has  been  put  to  you. 
We  shall  not  tell  you  when  the  time  has  expired ;  but 
if  you  have  not  given  us  an  answer  by  then,  you  shall 
certainly  have  three  bullets  through  your  head,  and  be 
buried,  in  an  hour  after,  under  the  room  in  which  you 
are  now  sitting.     Think !" 

There  was  a  palsying  pause.  One — two — three 
minutes  passed,  and  yet  Fowler  had  not  opened  his 


THE  WAGONER.  157 

lips.  He  heard  the  snapping  sound  of  a  pistol  being 
cocked :  he  fell  down  on  his  knees,  groaning,  "  Lord, 
have  mercy  upon  me  !"  He  continued  silent  a  few 
seconds  longer :  he  felt  the  cold  tip  of  a  pistol  touch- 
ing his  ear — his  resolution  faltered,  and  he  murmured, 
though  scarcely  audible,  "  Well,  I  don't  care  to  Jive 
abroad  ;  but  I  should  like  to  know  why  !"  "  You  have 
saved  your  life  by  a  hair's  breadth,"  replied  the  voice 
which  had  before  addressed  him,  "  but  you  are  a  stub- 
born fool.  Ten  seconds  longer,  and  you  would  have 
died." 

"May  I  now  ask  a  question?"  ''No,  sir!  unless 
you  are  careless  about  living  to  hear  the  answer  !" 
Fowler  muttered  to  himself. 

"What  are  you  saying,  you  sullen  fool?"  he  was 
asked.  "  Only  this,"  he  replied,  with  a  reckless  air, 
"  that  if  there  is  any  one  here  says  I'm  in  England, 
and  among  Englishmen,  I  say  he  is  a  liar,  that's  all." 

"  Poor  devil !"  muttered  a  voice,  in  a  compassion- 
ate tone  ;  but  it  was  instantly  answered  by  several  ex- 
clamations of  "  St  1- — st ! — hush  1" 

•*  Fowler,  your  hands  look  very  black  and  cold,"  said 
the  same  voice,  in  a  kind  tone.  "  And  well  they  may," 
replied  Fowler,  sullenly,  "  being  tied  down  so  long  and 
tightly !"' 

"  Well,  suppose  we  were  to  loose  them  ;  would  you 
use  violence  ?"  "  I  should  be  very  likely,  shouldn't  I, 
when  my  eyes  are  bandaged,  and  my  legs  tied,"  re- 
plied Fowler,  bitterly. 

"  Let  his  arms,  be  unpinioned,"  said  the  voice,  au- 
thoritatively ;  and  it  was  obeyed. 

"There  is  a  fire  in  the  room?"  said  Fowler.  He 
was  answered  in  the  affirmative. 

"  I  am  dying  with  cold  ;  let  me  sit  by  it !"'  He  was 
instantly  set  down  beside  the  fire,  and  sat  warming  his 
hands  for  some  time  in  silence. 

"  Will  you  undo  my  legs  ?"  "  No,"  was  the  prompt 
reply,  by  several  voices. 

"  So   help  me  God,"  continued  Fowler,  in  an  lm- 

14 


158  THE    WAGONER. 

ploring  tone,  "  I  will  sit  still,  and  not  attempt  mischief. 
For  God's  sake,  untie  my  legs — untie  my  legs  ;  and 
then  I  shall  be  sure  you  do  not  mean  to  murder  me." 

"  Pshaw,  fellow,  who  talks  of  murdering  you !"  was 
the  petulant  reply. 

"  Gentlemen !  only  consider !  what  can  one  do 
against  so  many,  even  if  he  were  ever  so  disposed  ? 
For  mercy's  sake,  unbind  me,  or  I  shall  go  mad ;  for  I 
feel  like  a  bullock  prepared  for  the  butcher!"  and  a 
visible  tremour  testified  the  reality  of  his  emotion.  A 
faint  whispering  conversation  went  on  for  a  few  mo- 
ments ;  and  he  was  then  told,  in  a  decisive  tone,  that 
his  request  could  not  be  complied  with ;  that  he  must 
be  content  to  sit  with  his  legs  tied  for  at  least  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour  longer ;  and  that  if  he  said  more  on  the 
subject  his  hands  would  be  retied  also.  He  received 
the  answer  in  silence  ;  but  his  lips  quivered  with  fury. 
He  heard  a  faint  rustling,  as  if  of  some  one  moving  pa- 
pers ;  and  was  presently  further  addressed  by  the  voice 
of  one  who  sat  beside  him. 

"  William  Fowler,  you  must  now  be  convinced  that 
you  are  in  the  power  of  those  who  can  do  what  they 
will  with  you ;  but  all  they  wish  is,  that  you  would  let 
them  send  you,  peaceably  and  comfortably,  out  of  Eng- 
land, to  a  place  where  you  may  live  as  you  like,  and 
have  plenty  of  money,  on  this  only  condition,  that  you 
will  not  try  to  return.  There  are  good  reasons  for  this. 
There  is  one  here  who  has  been  told,  on  oath,  that" — 
(here  the  speaker's  voice  faltered,  as  if  with  the  em- 
barrassment of  conscious  falsehood) — ''  that  you  are 
bent  on  taking  away  her  life — that— that — never  be 
happy  till  you  are  removed  from  England." 

"  What!"  exclaimed  Fowler,  nearly  at  the  top  of 
his  voice,  involuntarily  recoiling  from  the  speaker, 
rising  for  a  moment  from  his  seat,  and  elevating  his 
hands  with  amazement. 

The  speaker  proceeded,  but  in  a  somewhat  broken 
tone.  "It  matters  not  whether  you  deny  it  or  not,  or 
even  whether  it  be  true  or  false  in  itself— it  is  be- 


THE    WAGONER.  159 

lleved ;  and  the  lady  will  die  of  terror,  or  you  must 
quit  for  foreign  parts,  where  she  will  handsomely  pro- 
vide for  you."  Fowler  continued  silent ;  but  the  per- 
son who  had  been  speaking  to  him  observed  that  so 
much  of  his  face  as  was  not  concealed  by  the  bandage 
over  his  eyes,  was  become  of  a  corpselike  colour. 

"  Everything  has  been  done  to  persuade  the  lady 
that  you  mean  her  no  harm ;  it  has,  indeed."  The 
speaker  paused,  as  if  waiting  for  a  reply  ;  but  poor 
Fowler  spoke  not.  He  seemed  utterly  stunned  by 
what  he  had  heard.  There, was  a  dead  silence  in  the 
room  for  some  time. 

"  Fowler,"  said  the  voice,  in  a  gentle  tone,  while 
the  speaker  took  hold  of  his  hand  ;  "  do  you  hear  what 
I  am  saying  ?"  Fowler's  lips  moved,  as  though  with 
the  vain  attempt  to  speak  ;  and  presently  he  was  heard 
muttering,  absently,  "  Kill  a  lady  .'"  * 
"  You  said  she  was  here"  stammered  Fowler. 

"  Yes  ;  and  you  shall  hear  for  yourself,"  was  the 
reply.  "  Open  the  door  !"  continued  the  speaker,  in 
an  authoritative  tone.  He  was  obeyed :  a  door  was 
unlocked.  Presently  was  heard  the  rustling  of  a  fe- 
male dress,  and  the  sound  of  half  stifled  sobs  and 
sighs. 

"  Ah  !"  shrieked  a  female  voice,  "  there  he  is  !  I 
shall  die  !  Take  me  away.  He  has  sworn — "  and 
she  fell,  as  if  in  a  swoon.  One  or  two  of  the  persons 
present  affected  to  be  attending  to  her  ;  and  shortly 
were  announced  symptoms  of  recovery. 

"  Do  you  hear,  sir  V-  inquired  the  voice  of  him  who 
had  so  long  addressed  Fowler  ;  "  this  lady  swears  she 
is  in  fear  of  her  very  life  for  you,  guilty  wretch—" 
"  Then  she  is  a  liar  greater  than  there  is  in  hell,  and 
you  are  all  devils  !"  roared  Fowler,  springing  from  his 
seat,  and  tearing  off  the  bandage  from  his  eyes  ;  for 
while  his  hands  were  resting  upon  his  knees,  they  hap- 
pened to  come  in  contact  with  the  knot  of  the  cord 
which  tied  his  legs  ;  and  while  the  attention  of  those 
around  him  was  for  a  moment  directed  to  the  female 


160  THE    WAGONER. 

who  had  just  entered,  Fowler  contrived,  unperceived, 
to  slip  the  knot,  dropped  the  cord,  and  sprang  from  his 
seat,  as  has  been  told,  with  the  air  and  gestures  of  a 
madman.  In  a  twinkling,  he  had  felled  to  the  floor  a 
man  on  his  left,  who  was  in  the  act  of  levelling  a  pis- 
tol at  him ;  but  he  had  scarcely  hit  the  blow,  when  he 
shared  a  similar  fate,  for  he  was  the  next  moment  him- 
self struck  senseless  to  the  floor  by  a  fearful  blow  on 
the  head,  from  the  butt  end  of  a  pistol. 

When  Fowler  recovered  the  possession  of  his  facul- 
ties, he  found  himself  in  such  strangely  altered  cir- 
cumstances, that  he  could  scarcely  persuade  himself 
that  they  were  real — that  he  was  himself  awake.  He 
was  so  weak  that  he  could  hardly  prop  himself  up  on 
his  elbows  in  a  bed,  laid  upon  the  floor  of  a  small 
room,  apparently  a  cellar,  which  was  lighted  by  a  little 
lamp  burning  in  a  niche  of  the  wall,  and  the  ruddy 
glow  of  a  small  wood  fire.  He  looked  round  him  for 
an  instant  with  a  confused  bewildered  stare,  and  then 
fell  back  on  his  bed,  exhausted  with  the  effort  of  sitting 
upright.  He  did  not  know  that  he  had  lain  there  for 
upward  of  a  fortnight,  during  which  time  he  had  suf- 
fered all  the  agonies  and  paroxysms  of  a  violent  brain 
fever,  without  having  received  any  medical  assistance  ! 
It  was  fortunate  that  he  was,  during  all  that  time,  tied 
hand  and  foot ;  for  he  might  have  destroyed  both  him- 
self and  those  around  him.  He  had  been  bled  several 
times  in  the  temples  by  a  few  leeches  applied  by  the 
old  woman  who  attended  him  ;  and  this,  added  to  a 
low  spare  diet,  was  the  only  means  adopted  to  snatch 
a  poor  unoffending  individual  from  a  cruel  and  prema- 
ture death !  His  mysterious  captors,  indeed,  could 
not,  even  had  they  felt  so  disposed,  summon  in  medical 
assistance  without  risking  fatally  their  own  safety,  by 
discovering  their  almost  unparalleled  atrocity.  But 
they  would  have  rejoiced  in  nothing  so  much  as  his 
death  under  disease  ;  for  that,  they  supposed,  would 
have  rid  them  from  a  world  of  suspense  and  trouble — > 
an  infinity  of  peril.     Twice  did  one  of  the  complotters 


THE    WAGONER.  161 

urge  upon  his  principal  the  dark  and  bloody  proposi- 
tion of  murdering  their  prisoner  as  he  slept  ■  but  was 
answered,  that  Fowler's  death  was  not  required — only 
his  absence  from  England.  Nevertheless,  one  inci- 
dent will  show  the  fearful  jeopardy  in  which  Fowler 
had  been  placed :  he  awoke  once  at  midnight,  and 
found  himself  alone,  the  pinioning  cords  loose  about  his 
arms,  and  a  keen-edged  butcher  knife  lying  close  by 
his  right  hand ! 

He  was  lying  one  afternoon  in  the  darkness  and  sol- 
itude to  which  he  was  now  painfully  accustomed, 
watching  the  dull  flicker  of  the  lamp,  and  the  crack- 
ling of  the  embers  of  his  fire.  He  was  too  weak  to  be 
able  to  rise  from  his  bed.  His  thoughts  were  vainly 
pondering,  for  the  thousandth  time,  over  the  unaccount- 
able situation  in  which  he  was  placed.  He  could  not 
conceive,  any  more  than  at  the  moment  of  his  seizure, 
what  were  the  reasons  of  it :  he  was  a  poor,  ignorant, 
unoffending  man,  who  had  never  injured  or  quarrelled 
with  any  one ;  and  what,  then,  could  be  the  meaning 
of  what  had  been  done  to  him  ?  Was  it  true,  or  only 
a  recollection  of  delirium,  that  he  had  heard  a  female 
declare  her  belief  that  he  intended  to  murder  her  1  If 
it  were  true,  how  could  she  come  to  form  such  a  pre- 
posterous opinion  1  If  it  were  false,  what,  in  the  name 
of  Heaven,  could  be  the  aim  and  scope  of  all  this  plot- 
ting 1  He  tried  to  think  over  every  action  of  his  life 
for  years  past ;  whether  he  had  incurred  the  ill  will  of 
any  of  his  companions  or  acquaintance,  who,  to  be  re- 
venged on  him,  had  taken  these  means  of  ruining  him, 
by  persuading  a  lady  that  he  had  threatened  her  life. 
But,  again,  if  that  were  so,  why  was  he  not  lawfully 
arrested,  examined  openly  in  a  court  of  justice,  and  at 
once  acquitted  or  convicted  ?  What  could  the  person, 
or  persons,  in  whose  custody  he  was,  want  to  do  with 
him,  or  require  him  to  do  ?  What  concern  had  they 
with  his  family  and  mode  of  life?  If  his  death  were  their 
object,  why  was  he  still  living,  after  they  had  had  so 
many  opportunities  of  easily  and  secretly  killing  him  1 

14* 


162  THE    WAGONER. 

All  these  conflicting  conjectures  served  only  to  bffing 
on  him  deeper  doubt  and  darkness ;  and  in  the  ex- 
tremity of  his  misery,  he  closed  his  eyes,  and  fervently 
besought  the  protection  of  Providence.  While  thus 
piously  engaged,  the  door  of  his  prison  was  opened, 
and  the  old  woman  who  attended  him  entered.  She 
did  not  speak,  as  indeed  she  rarely  did,  but  proceeded 
to  tie  the  bandage  over  his  eyes,  by  which  he  knew 
that  he  was  going  to  receive  a  visit  from  his  torment- 
ors ;  and,  sure  enough,  in  a  few  moments  he  heard 
some  one  step  into  the  room,  bringing  with  him  a 
chair,  on  which  he  sat  down  close  beside  Fowler. 

"  William  Fowler,  how  are  you  ?"  inquired  the  voice, 
whose  tones  were  now  fearfully  familiar.  "  Weaker 
than  yesterday,"  was  the  reply,  in  a  feeble  voice  ; 
"  and  well  I  may  be  !  Your  cruelty  is  breaking  my 
heart,  as  well  as  my  health.  May  God  forgive  you ; 
for  if  I  die  of  this  illness,  I  am  a  murdered  man !" 

"Fowler — Fowler,"  continued  the  person  beside 
him,  with  some  faltering  of  manner,  ''  I  have  anxiously 
striven  to  find  a  means  of  explaining  all  that  has  be- 
fallen you,  and  even  setting  you  at  liberty  ;  but  I  can- 
not. I  am,  God  knows,  more  sorry  than  otherwise 
that  ever  I  undertook  what  has  been  done  ;  but  having 
gone  thus  far — "  "  Ha  !"  gasped  Fowler,  in  a  fierce 
though  feeble  under  tone  of  exultation,  "  the  devil  is 
deep  !     He  has  you  !" 

"  Well,"  proceeded  the  speaker,  sternly,  "  be  that 
as  it  may,  I  cannot  now  stop,  or  undo  what  has  been 
done.  It  would  be  both  ruin  and  death  to  me  ;  for  of 
course  you  would,  immediately  on  getting  your  liberty, 
tell  all — "  "  Ay  !"  gasped  Fowler,  unable  to  control 
himself,  or  dissemble. 

"  Well,  then,  now  you  have  at  once  put  it  out  of  my 
power  to  free  you,  even  were  I  ever  so  much  disposed. 
I  cannot  jeopard  my  life  to  save  yours.  Fowler,  you 
are  a  stubborn,  and  had  you  the  means,  a  revengeful 
man  :  you  will  therefore  be  well  looked  after.  I  must 
be  short ;  for  I  thought  I  should  have  found  you  sub- 


THE    WAGONER.  163 

dued  into  reason,  and  am  disappointed.  This  is,  per- 
haps, the  last  time  you  will  ever  hear  me  speak  to  you  ; 
listen,  therefore.  To-night,  whether  you  be  well  or 
ill,  you  will  be  removed  from  this  place,  by  men  fully 
armed,  and  set  out  on  a  journey  to  foreign  parts.  You 
will  be  taken  to  America  ;  and  fifty  pounds  will  be  put 
into  your  hands  the  moment  you  land.  A  month  after- 
ward you  will  receive  five  pounds  ;  and  then  that  sum 
will  be  paid  you  regularly  every  month.  You  are  to  live 
in  America,  mark  me,  for  at  least  twelve  years — pos- 
sibly for  the  remainder  of  your  life ;  and  sure  means 
are  taken  to  prevent  your  ever  attempting  to  send  word 
to  England,  or  escape  thither  yourself.  You  will  cer- 
tainly not  live  one  hour  after  you  shall  have  set  sail  from 
America.  I  tell  you  this,  William  Fowler,  not  more 
solemnly  than  truly,  that  you  may  be  neither  rash  nor 
foolish.  Only  continue  in  America,  and  you  shall  be 
both  a  rich  and  happy  man.  There  are  deep  and 
dreadful  reasons  for  all  this,  many  of  which  you  must 
not  at  present  be  made  acquainted  with.  The  lady 
whom — "  On  hearing  these  last  two  words,  William 
Fowler  attempted  to  spit  in  the  face  of  the  speaker, 
making  use  of  a  ghastly  imprecation. 

"  Well,"  continued  his  visiter,  calmly,  "  I  grieve  to 
see  your  temper  so  fierce,  as  you  are  yourself  the 
only  one  whom  you  can  hurt.  Farewell,  William 
Fowler  ;  farewell !"  And  with  these  words  the  mys- 
terious speaker  rose  and  stepped  towards  the  door. 
"  Come  back  a  moment — come  back  !"  cried  Fowler, 
as  loudly  as  he  could,  while  the  door  was  closing.  It 
was  reopened,  and  he  heard  the  sound  of  returning 
footsteps. 

"  Well,  what  is  the  matter  ?"  "  You  think  you  are 
concealed  from  me  ;  but  you  are  wrong.  I  know  you," 
continued  Fowler,  in  an  agitated  tone :  "  I  recollect 
your  voice.     You  are — Sir  William  Gwynne  /" 

Fowler  heard  his  visiter  suddenly  utter  a  gasping 
sound,  and  spring  from  the  seat  on  which  he  was  in  the 
act  of  sitting  down :  then  he  heard  the  sound  of  a 


164  THE    WAGONER. 

stifled  groan — of  attempts  to  suppress  violent  emotion. 
At  length  his  visiter  staggered  out  of  the  room,  closing 
the  door  after  him,  as  with  an  unsteady  hand.  Fowler 
was  left  alone  for  three  hours  :  his  food,  wretched  stuff 
at  best,  was  not  brought  him  as  usual ;  and,  faint  with 
hunger,  and  worn  out  with  agitation  and  suspense,  he 
at  length  dropped  asleep. 

Before  that  time  twenty-four  hours,  the  wretched, 
persecuted  Fowler,  in  almost  the  last  degree  of  ex- 
haustion, was  placed  on  board  a  sloop  in  the  Channel. 
He  lay  in  a  state  rather  of  profound  stupor  than  sleep, 
in  his  hammock,  when  he  was  suddenly  roused,  in  the 
middle  of  the  night,  and  carried  on  board  another  ves- 
sel, which  was  a  French  brig,  bound  for  America. 
Confused  as  he  was,  he  heard  the  respective  crews 
taking  leave  of  one  another,  in  a  confused  jargon  of 
French  and  English  ;  and  presently  after,  all  being 
again  quiet  around  him,  he  fell  asleep.  He  had  asked, 
while  on  board  the  former  vessel,  for  a  draught  of  beer, 
to  quench  his  raging  thirst;  and  the  stupor  which  speed- 
ily followed,  proved  that  it  had  been  drugged. 

On  the  third  day  of  his  passage,  the  bandage  was  re- 
moved from  his  eyes,  and  the  pinions  from  his  arms 
and  legs.  The  light  almost  blinded  him  for  some  min- 
utes,  his  eyes  had  so  long  been  kept  closed  ;  and  his 
benumbed  and  strained  limbs  seemed  scarce  to  have 
the  power  of  motion  left  to  them.  At  length  he  was 
able  to  see  that  he  lay  in  a  tolerably  comfortable  berth. 
Everything  about  him  wore  a  foreign  appearance  ;  and 
the  poor  wagoner,  lonely  and  deserted,  closed  his  eyes, 
sobbed,  and  shed  tears  at  the  recollection  of  his  suf- 
ferings, and  the  illness  which  yet  oppressed  him. 
This  was  his  situation,  when  a  strange  figure  of  a 
cabin  boy,  his  head  hid  in  a  great  hairy  cap,  suddenly 
made  his  appearance  at  his  bedside,  and  said  some- 
thing to  him  in  the  French  language.  Fowler  shook 
his  head,  intimating  that  he  did  not  understand  him. 
The  cabin  boy,  after  making  several  motions,  as  if  to 
make  himself  intelligible  to  the  Englishman,  presently 


THE    WAGONER.  165 

withdrew,  and  returned  with  a  basinful  of  sea  soup,  or 
broth,  which  he  proffered  good-humouredly  to  his  pas- 
senger, who  rose  up  in  bed,  and  ate  it  with  absolute 
voracity.     It  was  the  first  food  he  had  taken  with  relish 
for  many  a  long  day.     He  was  waiting  for  the   reap- 
pearance of  the   cabin  boy.  to  make  signs   for  some- 
thing to  drink,  when  another   of  the   crew  made  his 
appearance — a  tall,  muscular,  uncouth-looking  fellow — 
a  world  of  ill-fitting  clothes,  and  his  head  covered  with  a 
great  red  nightcap — who  in  bad  broken  English  asked 
Fowler  whether  he  would  dress  and  go  on  deck.     Un- 
prepossessing as  was  his  aspect,  Fowler  felt  a  regard 
for  him,  merely  for  the  sake  of  the  few  words  he  had 
uttered  of  English.     They  soon  got  into  conversation 
about  indifferent  matters,  chiefly  touching  the  country 
to   which  they  were  sailing — America :  of  which  the 
Frenchman    gave    him    an    enthusiastic    description. 
"When   Fowler  was   able   to   leave  his  bed,  this   man 
helped  to  dress  him,  assisted  him  up  the  cabin  steps,  and 
supported  him  while  he  walked  to  and  fro  on  the  deck, 
lost  for  some  time   in  wonder  and  admiration  at  the 
novel    scenery — the   world    of    uninterrupted    waters 
which  surrounded  him — the  vessel,  with  all  her  sails 
bellied  out  by  the  fresh  breeze,  bounding  over  the  blue 
foaming  waters,   which  sparkled   and   flashed  in  the 
vivid  sunlight !     He  forgot,  for  a  while,  his   sufferings 
— the  mysterious  wrongs  he  was  enduring;  and  while 
the   momentary  excitement   and   glow  were  upon  his 
feelings,  in  an  hour  of  unguarded  confidence  he  told  his 
new  companion  all  that  had  befallen  him  in  England, 
and  the  manner  of  his  being  conveyed  on  shipboard,  as 
far  as  he  himself  recollected  it.     The  sailor  listened  to 
him  with  features  full  of  interest,  which  deepened,  how- 
ever, into  indignation,  as  Fowler  went  on.     His  ';  Sa- 
cres  !"  "  Pestes  !"  "  Mon  Dieus  !"  "  Diables  !"  as  the 
eager  and  foolish  Fowler  went  on  with  his  narrative, 
were  incessant. 

"  Aha !  vould  not  you  kill  de  dam  cruel  man   vat 
doyoudis,  verever  you  see  him,  mon  pauvre  Anglais:"1 


166  THE    WAG  ONE  £L 

asked  the  sailor,  clenching  his  fist.  "  No,  no,"  re- 
plied Fowler  ;  "  but  if  I  get  back  to  England,  I  may  get 
him  hanged  for  it.  Do  you  think  I  could  get  back? 
I  suppose  there  are  plenty  of  ships  in  America  ?" 

"  Ay,  ma  foi !  ver  good  ;  but  how  you  get  de  money 
for  come  V  inquired  the  Frenchman,  shaking  his  head. 
"  Oh,  why,  I'm  to  have  fifty  pounds  directly  t  get  into 
America  !"     The  sailor  seemed  confounded. 

"  Fifty  pounds  when  you  get  America  1  and  you  say 
you  ill  used  ?  Begar,  mon  ami !  I  vish  dat  some  one 
would  take  me  away  from  my  countree,  and  use  me  the 
ver  same  bad  way  you  are  !"  "  Oh,"  proceeded  Fow- 
ler, "  besides  that,  I'm  to  have  five  pounds  a  month  for 
ever  and  ever,  if  I  will  but  stop  there  !" 

The  sailor  stared  again,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
said,  "  Ah,  sacre  !  you  be  ver  well  content  wid  your 
cruel,  bon  ami !  You  are  dam  lucky  man !  Begar,  I 
vish  I  was  kidnap  !  Do  not  you  go  away  from  Amer- 
ica. Aha  !  dam  happy  glorieuse  countree  !  better  than 
France  or  England  !     Aha  !  lucky  man  !" 

Little  did  poor  Fowler  imagine,  while  making  these 
unreserved  communications,  that  his  newly-found  con- 
fidant was  the  ruffian,  heavily  feed  and  hired  by  Sir 
William  Gwynne  and  others,  to  accompany  him  to 
America — to  watch  all  his  doings — to  pay  him  all  the 
moneys  spoken  of — and  without  hesitation  take  his  life, 
if  he  attempted  to  return  to  England  ! 

When  they  reached  America,  Fowler  had  greatly  re- 
covered both  his  health  and  spirits.  His  curiosity  was 
abundantly  roused  and  gratified  by  the  new  and  pro- 
digious scenes  he  was  approaching.  On  landing  at 
New- York,  he  put  up,  with  several  of  the  crew,  at  a 
small  house  of  entertainment  in  the  suburbs.  All  of 
them  drank  deeply  ;  and  Fowler  was  carried  to  bed  in 
a  state  of  insensibility.  When  he  awoke,  about  the 
middle  of  the  next  day,  he  overthrew  a  stool  that  was 
placed  by  his  bedside  ;  and,  on  accidentally  casting  his 
eyes  to  the  floor,  he  saw  it  strewn  with  bank  notes  ! 
This  circumstance  soon  collected  his  scattered  intel- 


THE   WAGONER.  107 

lects,  and  recalled  him  to  a  sense  of  the  singular  mis- 
ery and  mystery  of  his  situation.  In  a  foreign  coun- 
try, without  a  single  relative,  friend,  or  acquaintance 
among  its  inhabitants — smuggled  rrom  home  in  a  fear- 
ful and  atrocious  manner,  he  knew  not  why  or  where- 
fore— forbidden  to  return,  under  penalty  of  instant 
death,  which  he  knew  not  when  or  how  to  evade. 
What  was  to  become  him  ?  What  was  he  to  do  1  The 
thought  never  occurred  to  one  so  ignorant  and  inexpe- 
rienced as  he  was  of  putting  himself  at  once  under  the 
protection  of  the  civic  authority  of  New- York  ;  and 
even  if  it  had,  it  is  probable  Fowler  would  have  feared 
taking  such  a  step,  lest  his  murder  should  be  the  con- 
sequence. He  lay  tossing  about  in  bed,  completely 
bewildered,  and  irresolute  what  to  do.  When  he  rose, 
he  found  his  ship  companions  had  left  the  house,  even 
the  one  most  intimate  with  him.  He  went  down  at 
once  to  the  ship  by  which  he  had  come,  sought  out  the 
captain,  and  contrived  to  ask  him  whether  or  not  he 
would  take  him  back  again?  He  was  promptly  an- 
swered in  the  negative  ;  and  was  told  that  the  ship  was 
to  proceed  immediately  to  South  America.  Wearied 
and  disappointed,  afraid  of  seeking  out  an  English  ship, 
lest  his  life  should  be  sacrified  as  had  been  threatened, 
he  returned  to  the  inn  he  had  left,  and  endeavoured  to 
seek  solace  in  drink.  He  was  soon  afterward  joined 
by  several  of  the  crew,  and  his  own  intimate  friend 
among  the  number ;  and  they  all  fell  to  drinking  again. 
Fowler  was  informed  that  they  had  leave  of  absence 
from  their  ship  for  a  few  days,  before  it  proceeded  to 
South  America ;  and  they  proposed  to  take  a  journey  into 
the  interior  of  the  country.  He  was  asked  to  accom- 
pany them  ;  and,  his  fancy  being  inflamed  with  their  ac- 
counts of  the  luxuriance  and  magnificence  of  the  scenes 
he  would  witness,  he  consented.  I  need  not  describe 
their  excursion.  Drink,  merry  conversation,  and  in- 
cessant change  of  scene,  soon  dissipated  Fowler's 
moodiness,  and  he  seemed  to  enjoy  the  jaunt  as  keenly 
as  any  of  the  party.     One  incident  must  be  mentioned, 


168  THE    WAGONER. 

as  it  materially  influenced  the  fortunes  of  Fowler,  and 
forwarded  the  scheme  of  those  who  had  sent  him  from 
England.  His  favourite  companion  (Francis  Leroux 
by  name)  took  the  opportunity  one  evening,  when  he 
and  Fowler  had  strayed  far  from  their  companions,  and 
were  viewing  a  sweet  cottage,  with  a  pretty  patch  of 
land  about  it,  the  whole  of  which  was  marked  for  sale, 
of  making  Fowler  a  proposal  that  greatly  surprised 
him.  He  began  by  saying  that  he  had  long  been  tired 
of  a  sailor's  life,  and  desired  to  settle  in  America,  but 
had  not  a  favourable  opportunity  till  then  ;  that  he  and 
Fowler  seemed  to  have  agreed  very  well  on  shipboard, 
and  he  did  not  see  why  they  should  quarrel  on  land. 

"  And  so — what  you  say  to  we  live  here  together  1 
Is  it  not  better  than  sail  the  great  dam  sea?  You 
tell  me  you  have  money — fifty  pounds — and  so  have  I, 
little,  what  I  save.  We  both  buy  this  place,  and  both 
live  and  work  here  together,  and  so  we  get  rich — ver 
soon — ver  rich,  and  then  we  go  home,  you  to  your 
country,  and  I  to  my  own !  Eh!  vat  you  say  to  this  P 
he  inquired,  anxiously ;  at  the  same  time  taking  out  a 
small  leathern  purse,  he  showed  Fowler  several  pieces 
of  gold  coin,  and  notes  for  money  on  American  banks. 
Fowler,  as  soon  as  his  astonishment  had  a  little  sub- 
sided, promptly  refused  10  accede  to  his  companion's 
proposal,-  saying,  that  "  nothing  should  keep  him  from 
England ;  that  he  would  go  back,  come  what  might." 

"  Ah,  mon  ami !  And  what  you  do  when  you  go 
there  P  '•  Find  out  the  people  that  sent  me  away,  and 
then  get  them  hanged." 

"  Aha !  First  catch  your  fish,  and  then  cook  him  ; 
but  what  if  him  not  bite  \  sacre  !" 

To  cut  matters  short,  Fowler,  who  was  a  mixture  of 
shrewdness  and  simplicity,  was  in  the  end  over-per- 
suaded by  his  companion's  earnestness  and  volubility. 
Leroux  drew  such  an  enticing  picture  of  the  pleasures 
of  American  life,  and  represented  so  strongly  the  diffi- 
culties and  dangers  which  must  environ  Fowler  if  he 
were  to  attempt,  or  even  succeed  in  his  scheme  of  re* 


THE    WAGONER.  169 

turning  to  England,  and  the  improbability  of  his  pro- 
ving the  guilt  of  Sir  William  Gwynne,  or  even  ascer- 
taining that  he  was  right  in  charging  Sir  William  with 
it,  that  Fowler  at  length  told  his  companion  that  he 
would  consider  of  his  proposal.  He  at  length  agreed 
to  continue  in  America  for  at  least  a  year  or  two,  and 
try  whether  he  got  so  rich  as  Leroux  led  him  to  ex- 
pect. They  entered,  therefore,  into  a  sort  of  partner- 
ship, and  with  their  joint  funds  purchased  the  house 
and  grounds  which  had  attracted  their  admiration. 

Behold,  then,  William  Fowler  in  a  new  character ; 
that  of  an  American  farmer,  and  in  partnership  with 
his  newly  acquired  companion,  Francis  Leroux.  Many 
were  their  conversations,  as  was  natural,  on  the  ex- 
traordinary adventures  which  Fowler  had  undergone  ; 
and  one  remark  was  made  by  the  Englishman  which 
seemed  to  strike  Leroux  forcibly. 

"  Should  I  be  sent  out  of  England  at  all  this  expense, 
and  kept  here  so  handsomely,  for  nothing  ?  It  must  be 
worth  somebody's  while  !"'  "  Ay,  but,"  would  Leroux 
reply,  "  begar,  you  go  back  and  get  your  dam  head 
blow  off  if  that  worth  your  while  !" 

Affairs  prospered  with  the  farmers,  and  Fowler's 
uneasiness  began  to  wear  off,  giving  place  to  the  nu- 
merous and  active  cares  of  business.  The  land  was  so 
fertile,  the  climate  so  delightful,  the  scenery  so  beauti- 
ful, living  so  cheap,  and  Leroux  so  unwearyingly  gay 
and  good  natured,  that  Fowler  began  to  get  not  only 
reconciled  to  his  lot,  but  delighted  with  it ;  coinciding 
in  the  frequent  remark  of  his  sagacious  companion, 
"  Ah,  '  bird's  hand  worth  two  bushes  ."  "  His  monthly 
allowance  of  51.  was  forwarded  to  him,  though  at  irreg- 
ular periods,  from  the  next  post  town,  distant  about 
twenty  miles  ;  and  at  length  Fowler,  finding  himself 
environed  on  every  side  with  mystery,  gave  up  fretting 
about  unravelling  it,  contented  with  the  comfort  and 
plenty  it  produced  him. 

The  artful  rogue  Leroux  was  a  ci-devant  English 
smuggler,  who  had  been  heavily  bribed  by  Sir  William 
H  15 


170  THE    WAGONER. 

Gwynne  and  another,  to  assist  in  kidnapping  Fowler, 
conveying  him  abroad,  and  watching  over  him  with  in- 
cessant vigilance.  His  broken  English  was  all  as- 
sumed. He  could  speak  tolerably  well  in  both  lan- 
guages— trading,  as  he  did,  between  the  coasts  of  the 
two  countries ;  but  thought  that  he  could  more  easily 
delude  his  prisoner  by  adopting  a  mixture  of  the  two. 
Sir  William  Gwynne  had  given  him  the  sum  of  2001. 
at  setting  out,  telling  him  to  keep  half  of  it  for  his  own 
purposes,  and  give  the  remainder  to  Fowler,  as  has 
been  described  ;  and  when  it  was  exhausted  he  was  to 
write  for  more.  The  mode  adopted  by  Leroux  for 
conveying  the  monthly  instalments  to  Fowler  was  this 
— he  took  the  opportunity  of  visiting  the  next  post 
town  on  a  market  day  once  a  month,  where  he  en- 
closed 51.  in  a  blank  envelope,  and  put  it  in  the  post, 
which  duly  delivered  it  at  Fowler's  residence.  For 
several  years  did  Fowler  receive  this  money,  each 
time  expressing  astonishment  at  the  mode  of  its 
conveyance  ;  and  yet  never  discovered  the  agency  of 
Leroux!  Extraordinary  as  this  may  seem,  it  is  nev- 
ertheless the  fact.  The  fidelity  and  ingenuity  of  Le- 
roux were  secured  and  perpetuated  by  the  vigilant  skill 
of  Sir  William  Gwynne,  who  timed  his  remittances  and 
shaped  his  communications  with  astonishing  tact.  How 
wise  is  the  ordination  of  Providence,  that  never  fails  to 
insert  into  guilty  combinations  the  elements  of  treach- 
ery, as,  indeed,  a  necessary  condition  of  its  being; 
concealment  involving  its  own  discovery !  It  was 
against  this — against  the  risk  of  Leroux's  perfidy,  that 
Sir  AVilliam  had  to  guard  himself,  and  yet  never  for 
an  instant  felt  fully  secure.  Leroux  had  extorted  great 
sums  from  his  employer  beyond  what  jiad  been  prom- 
ised him,  and  grew  occasionally  insolent  in  enforcing 
both  the  punctuality  and  increase  of  his  remittances. 
Sir  William  had,  besides  Leroux,  another  bloodsucker, 
that  scarce  ever  left  his  side,  in  the  person  of  a  fellow- 
smuggler  of  Leroux's,  who  grew  increasingly  exorbi- 
tant in  his  demands,  as  repeated  trials  convinced  him 


THE    WAGONER.  171 

of  the  firm  hold  he  had  upon  the  guilty  baronet.  Sir 
William  grew  nearly  frantic  at  finding  the  fearful  ex- 
tent to  which  he  was  committed,  and  the  incessant  ef- 
forts and  sacrifices  necessary  to  quiet  his  ruffianly 
agents  ;  and  yet,  perhaps,  after  all,  only  postponing 
discovery,  disgrace,  and  even  death.  The  figure  of 
the  poor  wagoner  haunted  him  cruelly  day  and  night ; 
and  then  he  had  to  bear  the  stubborn  insolence  of  one 
minion,  dogging  and  bullying  him  personally  at  home, 
and  the  incessant  baying  of  a  bloodhound,  borne  to  his 
affrighted  ears  over  the  Atlantic  ! 

In  one  of  his  gloomiest  and  most  reckless  moments, 
the  unfortunate,  the  wretched,  the  guilty  baronet  set  pen 
to  paper,  and  wrote  to  Leroux  in  nearly  the  following 
terms  : — 

"  You  once  pressed  me,  while  was  in  Eng- 
land, in  our  hands,  to  destroy  him,  and  I  refused.  I 
never  wished  to  destroy  him — my  soul  shrinks  from 
blood.  But  in  the  humour  in  which  I  now  write,  I  may 
say,  in  a  manner,  that  my  views  are  altered.  I  say — 
mark  me — that  I   do  not  now  wish  to  destroy  him ;  I 

mean  only,  that  if were  out  of  the  way,  when  I 

heard  of  it,  I  should  not  trouble  myself  with  inquiring 
into  it.  Your  comrade (mentioning  Leroux's  fel- 
low-smuggler) talks  on  the  matter  with  cruel  cunning, 
saying,  that  there  are  many  ways  of  your  seeing  that 

dies,  without  having  to  charge  yourself,  or  any  one 

else,  directly,  with  the  doing  of  it.  But  I  always  stop 
him  when  he  talks  so.  Indeed  I  do  not  know  why  I 
name  the  thing  to  you.  Enclosed  are  bank  notes 
for  100Z.     Tear  and  burn  this  letter,  or  send  it  me  back" 

When  Leroux  received  and  read  this  letter,  it  threw 
him  into  a  long  train  of  thought — for  nearly  an  hour. 
At  length  he  rose  from  his  seat,  put  the  money  into  his 
strong  box,  and  the  letter  into  his  pocketbook,  saying 
to  himself,  "Now,  this  is  a  two-edged  sword,  and  will 
cut  either  way  I  choose  !" 

To  return  now  to  England.  The  abduction  of  Fow- 
ler  produced  a  prodigious  sensation  over  the  whole 

H  2 


172  THE    WAGONER. 

county.  There  was  scarcely  a  house,  there  were  scarce 
any  premises,  public  or  private,  but  were  ransacked 
for  his  discovery.  Forster's  services  were  in  universal 
request,  to  aid  in  identifying  the  scenes  he  had  himself 
described — and  he  was  hurried  here,  there,  and  every- 
where, for  that  purpose,  but  in  vain.  He  could  recog- 
nise nothing,  nor  give  any  clew  of  information.  The 
affair  excited  greater  alarm  even  than  that  of  Forster; 
and  the  whole  country  round  about  was  rife  with  dark 
and  dismal  speculations  concerning  the  mysterious  fate 
of  "  The  Wagoner."  Ballads  were  made,  and  sung 
about  the  streets  of  Shrewsbury ;  and  at  length  super- 
stition was  roused,  who  hinted  that  there  were,  or  might 
be,  supernatural  agency  at  work  in  the  business  ! 

Sir  William  Gwynne  was  pre-eminent  among  his 
fellow-magistrates,  in  exertions  to  unravel  the  myste- 
rious transaction  ;  cheerfully  devoting  day  after  day  to 
the  receiving  of  depositions,  the  granting  of  warrants, 
the  examination  of  suspected  persons,  and  authorizing 
the  distribution  of  placards,  offering  liberal  rewards  for 
the  discovery  of  the  perpetrators  of  such  an  atrocious 
outrage.  He  caused  the  chief  of  a  notorious  gang  of 
gipsies,  who  had  been  long  in  ill  odour,  to  be  arrested, 
under  pretence  of  a  secret  information  against  him.  He 
caused  the  anonymous  letter  on  which  he  acted  to  be 
made  public — and  its  cunning  inuendoes  and  circum- 
stantiality served  to  arrest  public  suspicion,  and  fix  it 
permanently  on  the  gipsies  !  All  was  useless,  however. 
Nothing  could  be  discovered.  The  devil  outwitted  all. 
The  veteran  gipsy  was  discharged  for  want  of  evi- 
dence ;  the  reward  placards  gradually  disappeared  from 
the  walls  ;  new  nine-day  wonders  arose,  challenging 
public  curiosity  in  their  turn — and  all  was  buried  in  un- 
discoverable  mystery. 

Now,  what  is  the  meaning — the  reason  of  all  this  ? 
the  reader  is  doubtless  exclaiming.  He  shall  shortly 
be  informed. 

About  two  months  before  the  seizure  of  Richard 
Forster,  Sir  William  Gwynne,  a  wealthy  and  powerful 


THE   WAGONER.  173 

baronet  in  Shropshire,  who  had  retired  to  his  library 
after  dinner,  to  write  several  letters  of  importance,  and 
was  in  the  act  of  drawing  on  his  velvet  dressing  gown, 
was  informed  by  his  valet  that  a  gentleman  had  just  ar- 
rived at  the  hall,  who  desired  to  speak  with  him  on 
urgent  business. 

"  Show  him  in,"  said  the  baronet,  sitting  down  in  his 
study  chair,  which  he  drew  around  to  the  fire.  His  vis- 
iter in  a  few  moments  made  his  appearance,  announc- 
ing himself  as  a  Mr.  Oxleigh,  a  solicitor,  residing  at 
a  little  distance  from  Shrewsbury.  He  was  a  short, 
squat,  ugly,  Jew-featured  man,  with  a  muddy-black 
piercing  eye — the  beau  ideal  of  a  country  pettifogger 
— with  "  rogue"  written  all  over  his  face  in  characters 
of  impudence.  The  haughty  baronet  was  sufficiently 
disgusted  with  the  man  at  first  sight — but  much  more 
with  his  vulgar  offensive  nonchalance. 

"  Sir  William,"  said  he,  carelessly,  approaching  a 
chair,  nearly  opposite  to  the  frowning  baronet,  "  I'm 
afraid  this  is  intruding  upon  you — an  inconvenient — " 
"  Your  business,  sir,  I  pray,"  interrupted  the  baronet, 
with  a  stern  impatience  of  tone  and  manner,  that  some- 
what abashed  the  attorney ;  who,  instead  of  sitting 
down  in  the  chair,  as  he  had  intended,  stood  leaning  a 
moment  against  the  back  of  it. 

"  Allow  me,  Sir  William,  to  take  a  seat,"  said  he,  in 
a  somewhat  humble  tone,  "  as  the  business  I  am  come 
upon  may  be  long  and  wearisome  to  both  of  us."  "  Be 
seated,  sir,  and  brief,"  replied  the  baronet,  haughtily, 
drawing  back  his  own  chair,  but  with  a  little  surprise 
in  his  features. 

"  I  believe,  Sir  William,"  proceeded  Oxleigh,  lei- 
surely taking  out  one  of  a  packet  of  papers,  tied  to- 
gether with  thin  red  tape,  "  that  the  rental  of  the 
Gwynne  estates  is  from  25  to  30,000?.  per  annum  ?" 

"  What  the  d do  you  mean,  sir  ?"  slowly  inquired 

the  baronet,  sitting  forward  in  his  chair,  and  eying 
Oxleigh  with  unfeigned  amazement. 

"I  believe  I  am  correct,  Sir  William,"  continued 

15* 


174  THE   WAGONER. 

the  attorney,  with  a  cool  composure  and  impudence 
that  confounded  his  aristocratical  companion.  "  Be 
good  enough,  Mr. — a — a — whatever  your  name  is — 
be  good  enough,  sir,  to  state  your  business,  and  with- 
draw !"  said  the  baronet,  in  a  commanding  tone. 

"  I  am  afraid,  Sir  William,  that  my  business  will  take 
longer  to  settle  than  you  seem  to  imagine,"  continued 
Oxleigh,  with  immoveable  assurance.  The  baronet 
made  an  effort  to  control  himself ;  or,  being  a  power- 
ful man,  he  might  have  thrust  his  presumptuous  visiter 
out  of  his  presence,  somewhat  unceremoniously. 

M  I  should  be  sorry,  Sir  William,  either  to  say  or  do 
anything  displeasing  or  disrespectful — but  my  duty 
compels  me  to  say,  that  in  the  important  business  I  am 
come  about,  I  must  be  allowed  my  own  time,  and 
my  own  way  of  going  about  it.  It  appears,  Sir  Wil- 
liam— "  proceeded  the  attorney,  with  would-be  calm- 
ness, though  his  hands  trembled  visibly,  and  his  voice 
was  thick  and  hurried.  "  My  good  sir,  your  business, 
whatever  it  be,  had  better  be  transacted  with  my  stew- 
ard. If  you  really  have  any  business  that  concerns  me, 
sir,  you  clearly  do  not  know  how  to  communicate  with 
me.  Bundle  up  your  papers,  sir,  and  retire,"  said  the 
baronet,  rising  to  ring  his  bell. 

"  Sir  William — Sir  William!"  exclaimed  Oxleigh, 
earnestly,  rising  from  his  chair  ;  "  pray — allow  me — 
one — one  instant,  only.  I  can  say  one  word  that  will 
make  you,  however  indisposed  you  now  are,  willing — 
nay,  anxious — to  hear  me  !"  "  What  does — what  can 
all  this  mean,  sir?"  inquired  the  baronet,  pausing,  with 
the  bell  rope  still  in  his  hand. 

"  Only  this,  Sir  William,"  said  the  attorney,  putting 
the  packet  of  paper  into  his  pocket,  and  buttoning  his 
coat ;  "  I  could  have  wished  to  communicate  it  in  a 
friendlier  manner.  You  think,  you  have  a  right  to  the 
title  of  Sir  William  Gwynne,  and  these  large  estates. 
You  have,  however,  no  more  right  to  them  than — your 
obedient  humble  servant,  Job  Oxleigh,  to  command." 
The  baronet's  hand  dropped  from  the  bell  rope — the 


THE    WAGONER.  175 

colour  left  his  cheek  for  a  moment,  and  he  stared  at 
the  attorney  in  silence.  "  Why,  you  caitiff!"  slowly 
exclaimed  the  baronet ;  and  calmly  approaching  Mr. 
Oxleigh,  he  grasped  him  with  overpowering  strength 
by  the  collar,  holding  him  for  a  second  or  two,  and 
looking  in  his  face  as  one  would  into  that  of  a  snarling 
dog,  whom  one  holds  by  the  throat ;  and  then  with  a 
violent  kick  jerked  him  from  him  to  the  farther  corner 
of  the  room,  where  he  lay  prostrate  on  the  floor,  the 
blood  trickling  from  -his  mouth,  which  had  caught  the 
corner  of  a  chair  in  falling.  After  continuing  there, 
apparently  stunned,  for  a  few  moments,  he  rose,  and 
wiping  the  blood  from  his  lips,  staggered  towards  the 
baronet,  who,  with  his  arms  folded,  was  standing  before 
the  fire. 

*'  Sir  William  Gwynne,  you  have  drawn  blood  from 
me,  you  see,"  said  he,  calmly,  pointing  to  his  spotted 
handkerchief;  "  and,  in  return,  be  assured  /  will  drain 
your  heart  of  every  drop  of  blood  it  contains.  I  will 
draw  down  the  law  upon  you  like  a  millstone,  which 
shall  utterly  crush  you.  Great  and  high  man  that  you 
are,"  he  continued,  in  the  same  calm  tone,  uninter- 
rupted by  him  he  addressed,  "  it  is  in  my  power  to  drag 
you  into  the  dust — to  strip  you  of  all  you  unjustly  pos- 
sess— to  turn  you  out  of  this  hall  a  beggar,  and  expose 
you  to  the  world  as  an  impostor.  Do  you  hear  me, 
Sir  William  Gwynne  V 

All  this  was  uttered  by  Oxleigh  with  the  accuracy 
and  impressiveness  of  a  man  who,  unwilling  to  trust  to 
extempore  wording  in  a  matter  of  the  last  importance, 
has  carefully  pondered  his  language,  and  even  commit- 
ted words  to  memory.  When  he  had  finished  speak- 
ing he  paused,  and  watched  the  baronet,  who  continued 
standing  motionless  and  silent  before  the  fireplace,  as 
before  ;  but  his  countenance  wore  an  expression  of  se- 
riousness, if  not  agitation,  and  his  eye  was  settled  on 
that  of  Oxleigh,  as  if  he  would  have  searched  his  soul. 
"  Mr.  Oxleigh,"  said  he,  in  a  lower  tone  than  he  had 
before  spoken   in,  "  whether  you  have,  or  have  not, 


176  THE   WAGONER. 

ground  for  what  you  say,  you  are  a  very  bold  man  to 
hold  such  language  as  yours  to  Sir  William  Gwynne  ! 
You  must  know,  sir,  that  I  am  a  magistrate  ;  and,  as 
you  profess  to  be  a  lawyer,  you  must  further  know  that  I 
can  at  once  commit  you  to  prison  for  coming  to  extort 
money  from  me  by  threats.  That  would  be  a  serious 
charge,  Mr.  Oxleigh,  you  know  well."  "  Have  I  men- 
tioned money,  Sir  William  ?"  inquired  Oxleigh,  calmly. 
"  But  commit  me — commit  me  this  moment.  You  shall 
the  sooner  get  rid  of  your  title  and  estate." 

M  Why,  you  impudent  man,  do  you  dare  come  here 
to  bandy  words  and  threats  with  me  ?"  "  Calling 
names  is  not  talking  reason,  Sir  William  ;  and  hard 
words  break  no  bones,"  replied  Oxleigh,  with  a  bitter 
smile.  "  /  call  you  no  names,  Sir  William,  and  yet  I 
call  you  by  your  wrong  name  ;  for  I  shall  elsewhere 
prove  you  to  be  Mister  William  Gwynne — not  Sir 
William  !  /can  afford  to  be  civil,  because  I  have  you 
quite  within  my  grasp  as  closely  as  I  could  wish  my 
deadliest  enemy.  I  am  in  condition  to  prove  that  you 
are  not  the  rightful  heir  of  this  property  ;  that  there  is 
some  one  living  who  has  a  prior  right  under  the 
entail." 

"  You  swindler!"  said  Sir  William,  striding  up  to 
him,  seizing  him  a  second  time  by  the  collar,  and 
shaking  him  from  head  to  foot.  "  Sir  William  Gwynne 
— Sir  William — you  must  pay  me  handsomely  for  all 
this — you  must  indeed  !"  panted  Oxleigh,  nowise  en- 
raged. "  You  had  better  be  calm,  and  count  the  cost! 
Every  kic*k,  thrust,  and  shake  you  give  me  is  worth  its 
thousands !  You  are  a  magistrate,  Sir  William,  you 
tell  me.  Have  you  not  committed  an  assault  on  me — 
a  breach  of  the  peace  ?  However,  I  do  not  come  to 
quarrel  with  you,  nor  am  disposed  to  do  so  even  yet,  ill 
as  you  have  used  me  ;  but  to  tell  you  that  your  all  on 
earth  is  at  the  mercy  of  him  you  insult!" 

Sir  William  Gwynne  was  boiling  over  with  fury ; 
yet  he  controlled  himself  sufficiently  to  say — or  rather 
gasp,  "  Wei},  sir,  simply  because  I  cannot  think  you 


THE    WAGONER.  177 

a  madman — and  a  madman  among  the  maddest  you 
must  be  to  behave  thus  without  knowing  well  your 
ground" — (Oxleigh  smiled  contemptuously) — "  I  ami 
ready  to  hear  what  you  have  to  say.  Go  on,  sir.  You 
may  sit  down,  if  you  choose."  The  baronet  sat  down 
in  his  easy  chair,  and  Oxleigh  took  a  seat  opposite  to 
him. 

"  Not  liking  to  trust  my  memory  in  such  matters  as 
this,  Sir  William,"  said  he,  leisurely,  "  I  have  com- 
mitted to  paper  what  I  have  to  say  to  you,  and  beg  your 
permission  to  read  it."  The  baronet  nodded  haughtily, 
and  his  features  wore  a  very  concerned  air.  Mr.  Ox- 
leigh drew  out  of  his  hat  a  sheet  of  paper,  and  distinctly 
read  as  follows  :  "  Sir  Gwynne  Fowler  Gwynne  died  in 
1673,  bequeathing  his  estates  to  his  eldest  son,  Fowler 
Gwynne  Gwynne,  and  the  heirs  male  of  his  body  ;  but  if 
his  first  son  died  without  havingbeen  married  and  leaving 
male  issue,  then  to  his  second  son,  Glendower  Fowler 
Gwynne,  and  the  heirs  male  of  his  body  ;  if  his  second 
son,  however,  died  unmarried,  and  without  leaving  male 
issue,  then  to  the  heirs'  male  of  Sir  Gwynne  Fowler 
Gwynne's  niece,  Mary  Gwynne  Evans,  on  condition 
that  they  took  the  name  of  Gwynne.' 

"  Sir  Fowler  Gwynne  Gwynne  entered,  and  died  at 
sea,  unmarried,  in  1683  ;  when  his  brother,  Glendower 
Fowler  Gwynne,  entered  on  the  titles  and  estates — 
was  afterward  married,  and  had  two  children — " 

"  Both  of  whom  died,"  interrupted  Sir  William, 
eagerly,  who  had  been  listening  with  undisguised  and 
intense  anxiety.  "But  one  of  them  left  issue"  con- 
tinued Oxleigh,  calmly  ;  "  and  that  issue  I  can  produce ! 
Gavin  Evans,  son  of  Ellen  Evans,  (your  father,  Sir 
William,)  entered  in  1740 ;  and  had  about  as  much  right 
to  do  so  as  I.     Do  I  make  myself  clear,  Sir  William  V 

"  And  do  you  pretend,  Mr.  Oxleigh,"  said  the  baro- 
net, rather  faintly,  yet  striving  to  assume  a  smile  of 
incredulity — "  do  you  dare  to  assert,  Mr.  Oxleigh,  that 
there  is  now  living  lawful  issue  of  Sir  Glendower 
Gwynne  V*     "  Yes,  Sir  William,  1  do — and  can  provo 

H3 


178  THE    WAGONER. 

it.  I  can  reduce  your  infirm  title  to  dust  with  a  breath, 
whenever  I  please  ;  and  thus  :  Sir  Glendower — as 
doubtless  you  know,  Sir  William — died  in  1740,  and, 
as  you  imagine,  without  leaving  male  issue  surviving 
him ;  but  I  can  show  you,  that  though  his  daughter 
Ellen  died  unmarried,  his  son,  William  Fowler  G wynne, 
was  married  in  1733." 

"It  is  false  as  hell !  It  is  false  !  It  is  false  I"  ex- 
claimed the  baronet,  vehemently — half  choked,  yet 
continuing  in  his  chair,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  Oxleigh. 
"  'Tis  too  true,  Sir  W  illiam — too  true  for  you,  I'm  afraid  ! 
I  say,  William  Fowler  Gwynne  was  secretly  married 
to  Sir  Glendower's  housekeeper  in  1733,  and  had  a  son 
by  her  in  1738,  a  few  months  only  before  he  himself 
died.  I  can  produce  all  the  necessary  registers  and 
certificates,  Sir  William — I  can  !  The  marriage  was 
in  the  proper  full  name  of  William  Fowler  Gwynne  ; 
but  immediately  afterward  his  wife  dropped  the  name 
of  Gwynne,  and  settled  in  a  distant  part  of  Somerset- 
shire, under  the  name  of  Fowler  ;  but  her  son  was  care- 
fully christened  by  the  name  of  Gwynne.  It  is  a  strong 
case,  Sir  William — wh'at  we  call,  in  law,  a  very  strong 
prima  facie  case,"  continued  Oxleigh,  bitterly.  "  I 
can,  at  a  day's  notice,  produce  that  son,  who  is  the 
proper  heir  and  holder  of  all  you  now  have — who  is  now 
more  than  of  age — '' 

"  Why,  sirrah  !  even  on  your  own  showing,  I  am  safe, 

you pettifogger,  if  by  right  of  possession  only." 

"  Pardon  me — pardon  me,  Sir  William  !  There  are 
nine  years  and  a  quarter,  and  more,  yet  to  expire,  be- 
fore that  can  be  the  case.  I  have  calculated  the  time 
to  a  minute  !  And  now,  Sir  William  Gwynne,"  said 
Oxleigh,  with  a  startling  change  of  tone,  "  pay  me  for 
the  kick  you  gave  me !" 

The  baronet  continued  silent ;  though  the  working 
of  his  features  showed  the  prodigious  tempest  that  agi- 
tated within.  "Let  me  be  frank,  Sir  William.  I  do 
not  presume  to  blame  you  for  calling  yourself  a  baro- 
net, and  enjoying  these  fine  estates ;  it  was  done  in 


tup;  WkGOHWl  179 

vcrp  haul,  to  g 

D  Bp,  S.r  W:\:.>- 
;i  Why,  improbability,  if  not  a  : 

hood,  on  i-  of  what  you  »aid  the 

baronet,  in  a  km 
that  William  Fowler  out  of  hn 

o  put  in  claim  on  behalf  of  her  son  till 
1  rlef 

in  childbed,  and  bad  changed  hi  ace,  by 

eek  before  her  eonnne- 

d  not  In  plain  die  nature  of  her 

'  birth,     /  .  them  urel!, 

though  at  fint  thro  \  :  and  have  for 

tied  out  every  fact  mat  can  eat  Irtish  the 

that  ire  on  to  4  e  title  and  <  poa 

Then  -  .   .   :  • 

•  "■ 
•  H-  of  all  tins  r'  inquired  the 

a  I  i  on  fro  tn  }j  i  g  fore  head ,  and 

■•■  hjch  Jay  in 

■      . 

•  •         •:    |        • 

tore  flu-  •  fire,  w.> 

in  an  kfr  Oxl< 

ben 

You  have  burned  eopiet 

.  ■  ■• 

'■    '.  ' 

■  ■-  /  ■  ■  ■  .    i  '    |  • 

bound  hand 

. .       .      ,  .  ,j 


180  THE    WAGONER. 

levelling  it  at  the  baronet,  "  since  I  cannot  otherwise 
obtain  civility,  I  shall  avenge  any  future  insult  you 
may  dare  to  offer  me  on  the  spot.  If  you  menace  me 
ever  so  little — if  you  lift  but  your  little  finger  threat- 
eningly towards  me — by !  I'll  shoot  you  through 

the  heart.  I  cannot  be  insulted  even  by  Sir  William 
Gwynne !"  said  he,  with  sarcastic  emphasis.  The 
baronet  looked  at  him  as  if  he  were  stupined  with  what 
he  had  seen  and  heard. 

°  Have  you  any  further  commands  with  me  in  this 
business,  Sir  William,  or  is  it  now  your  pleasure  that 
I  should  withdraw  V  inquired  Oxleigh.  "  Yes — with- 
draw, sir !  Begone  !  I  will  set  off  to-night  for  Lon- 
don ;  I  will  lay  your  atrocious  conduct  before  the  sec- 
retary of  state — I  will  seek  the  advice  of  eminent 
counsel — " 

"  Do  not  you  think,  then,  Sir  William,  that  one  de- 
positary of  such  a  secret  as  this  is  quite  enough  ? 
Would  you  rather  prefer  being  at  the  mercy  of  a  dozen, 
than  one  V  The  baronet  heaved  a  profound  sigh,  and 
looked  deadly  pale. 

"  Sit  down,  sir,"  said  he,  in  a  mournful  tone — "  pray 
be  seated,  Mr.  Oxleigh  !"  Oxleigh  bowed,  and  resumed 
the  chair  he  had  left. 

"  Put  away  your  pistol,  sir — "  "  Excuse  me — par- 
don me,  Sir  William!  Forgive  my  holding  it  in  my 
hand,  after  what  has  happened  between  us,  as  an  argu- 
ment for  coolness  and  consideration,  till  you  and  I 
thoroughly  understand  one  another !"  The  baronet's 
lips — rrather  his  whole  frame — quivered  with  insup- 
pressible  emotion,  and  his  eyes  were  fixed  with  a  kind 
of  anguished  stare  on  those  of  Mr.  Oxleigh.  He  sud- 
denly hid  his  face  in  his  hands,  pressed  his  hair  back, 
and  muttered,  "  Surely,  surely,  this  is  all  dreaming !" 

"  It  is  a  dreadful  business,"  exclaimed  Oxleigh, 
"  and  I  see  you  feel  it  to  be  so.  I  thought  you  would." 
The  baronet  spoke  not,  but  seemed  absorbed  in  deep 
and  bitter  reflection.     "  Sir  William,"  resumed  the  at- 


THE    WAGONER.  181 

torney,  in  a  low  tone,  "  is  it  impossible  for  us  to  come 
to  an — an  amicable  adjustment?" 

"  Great  Heaven !"  groaned  the  baronet,  rising,  and 
walking  hurriedly  to  and  fro  ;  "  here  is  a  wretch,  ab- 
solutely in  my  own  house,  tempting  me  to  become  a 
villain  !"  "  Say,  rather,  a  friend,  who  would  persuade 
you  to  prefer  safety  to  destruction,  Sir  William!" 

"  And  pray,  what  do  you  mean,  sir,  by  an  amicable 
adjustment  V  inquired  the  baronet,  sternly — pausing, 
and  looking  full  in  Oxleigh's  face.  "  Surely,  Sir  Wil- 
liam, it  is  not  very  hard  to  imagine  a  meaning,"  replied 
Oxleigh,  looking  unabashed  at  the  baronet  with  equal 
keenness  and  steadfastness.  Sir  William  seemed  con- 
founded at  the  easy  effrontery  of  his  companion. 

"  What,  sirrah,  do  you  mean  that  you  would  wish 
me  to  meet  the  person  you  have  been  speaking  of,  and 
buy  him  off  heavily  ?*'  '•'  Xo,  no,  Sir  William  ;  such  a 
thought  never  passed  through  my  head.  It  would  be 
folly  personified.  There  are  ways  of  cutting  the  knot : 
what  you  name  would  but  tie  it  faster." 

11  You  would  murder  him,  then  ?"  said  the  baronet, 
in  a  hollow  tone,  eying  Oxleigh  with  horror.  ft  Oh 
no,  Sir  William  ;  no  !  There  are  other  ways  vet  of 
disposing  of  him,  and  firmly  securing  you.  What,  for 
instance,  if  he  were  quietly  sent  out  of  the  country,  and 
kept  abroad,  without  knowing  how,  why,  or  by  whom  ? 
If  you  can  but  keep  him  there  for  nine  years,  it  will  be 
enough  ;  you  are  safe — his  right  is  barred — he  is  shut 
out  for  ever !" 

';  What !  why  do  you  pretend  to  intimate — do  you 
wish  me  to  believe  that  such  conduct  could  be  prac- 
tised with  impunity  ?  That  you  could  by  such  means 
cheat  him  out  of  his  rights,  in  spite  of  C4od  and  man  V 
"  I  do."  The  baronet  walked  about,  frequently  stop- 
ping, evidently  in  deep  and  agitating  thought;  and  at 
length  sat  down  exhausted  in  his  chair  in  silence. 
He  closed  his  eyes  with  his  hands,  and  looked  that 
moment  as  wretched  a  man  as  breathed. 

"  How  am  I  to  know,  sir,  that  you  are  not,  after  all, 

16 


1S2  THE    WAGONER. 

a  common  swindler — have  come  here  with  this  trumped- 
up  stuff  for  the  basest  purposes  V  inquired  the  baronet, 
with  a  scowl  of  mingled  pride  and  despair.  "  By  going 
to  the  parish  church  of  Grilstone,  and  for  yourself  com- 
paring my  copies,  which  I  will,  once  ?nore,  Sir  Wil- 
liam," continued  Oxleigh,  with  stinging  emphasis, 
"  cause  to  be  put  into  your  hands  to-morrow,  with  the 
original  registers  and  certificates  ;  and  if  you  prove  me 
wrong — that  I  have  deceived  you  in  anything — in  a 
single  tittle  of  what  I  have  said— hand  me  over  at  once 
to  the  pillory,  transportation,  or  death!" 

"Im?z7Z,  sir!"  replied  the  baronet,  with  a  searching 
look  at  Oxleigh ;  who  resumed,  "  Sir  William,  I  am 
a  lawyer,  and  a  calculating  one.  I  have  looked  well  to 
the  end  of  what  I  am  doing.  Permit  me,  therefore,  to 
say,  that  my  arrangements  will  not  allow  of  delay. 
You  must  choose  your  alternative — beggary,  or  a  bar- 
onetcy with  30,000/.  a  year !  And  again,  Sir  Wil- 
liam," continued  Oxleigh,  drawling  oat  his  words 
slowly,  "  there  are  what  we  lawyers  call  mesne  profits 
to  be  accounted  for  !  What  will  become  of  you  ?"  The 
baronet  shuddered.  The  bare  possibility,  the  distant 
contingency  of  such  a  thing,  was  frightful.  To  be  not 
only  shorn  of  his  title,  income,  and  standing  in  society, 
but  have  to  disgorge  two  or  three  hundred  thousand 
pounds  to  his  supplanter  !  Fearful  thoughts  and  pros- 
pects ;  bloody  schemes  began  to  gleam  before  the  dis- 
turbed intellects  of  Sir  William  Gwynne.  What  an 
awful  change  had  a  few  minutes  only  wrought  in  him, 
his  situation,  his  prospects  !  Here  was  a  low  fellow, 
a  scoundrel,  swindling  pettifogger,  bearding  and  bully- 
ing him  in  his  own  house  ;  flashing  ruin,  disgrace,  star- 
vation before  his  shrinking  eyes — coolly  goading  and 
edging  him  on  to  the  perpetration  of  villany  and  cruelty, 
and  requiring,  doubtless,  a  participation  in  the  profits  ! 
These  maddening  thoughts  kept  him  long  silent. 

"  Are  you,  permit  me  to  inquire,  thinking  of  what  I 
have  said,  Sir  William  !"  "  I  am  thinking  you  are  too 
great  a  villain  to  live,  sir  ;  and  that  I  had  better  knock 


THE    WAGONER.  1&3 

you  on  the  head,  and  so  rid  the  world  of  such  a  ruf- 
fian !"  replied  the  baronet,  with  a  desperate  air. 

"  Suppose  you  did,  Sir  William ;  a  lawyer,  like  an 
eel,  is  hard  of  dying.  I  have  made  such  arrangements, 
as,  even  were  you  to  succeed  in  killing  me  on  the  spot, 
here,  this  night,  and  which  would  not,  possibly,  be 
without  danger" — glancing  from  his  pistol  to  Sir  Wil- 
liam— "  it  would  do  you  no  good,  but  rather  ruin  you 
at  once  in  every  way,  with  no  possibility  of  escape.  I 
told  you  I  had  calculated,  Sir  William — " 

"  Oh  ! — your  terms,  sir !"  gasped  the  baronet,  inter- 
rupting Oxleigh,  as  though  he  felt  his  fate  pressing 
him  on.  "  Why,  I  don't  know,  exactly,  whether  I  could 
name  them  at  a  moment's  warning.  It  is,  I  presume, 
superfluous  to  say,  that  I  must  be  paid  well  for  any  as- 
sistance I  may  render  you.  Nay,  may  I  not  name  any 
terms  I  choose  ?     Is  it  not  /  who  am  to  dictate  ?" 

"  What  are  your  terms,  sir  ?"  repeated  the  baronet, 
with  an  air  of  consternation  at  the  tone  in  which  Ox- 
leigh spoke  :  "  whatever  they  are,  name  them  at  once. 
Don't  hesitate,  sir.  You  know,  of  course,  that  you  are 
a  scoundrel ;  but  circumstances  have  made  you  safe, 
and  protected  you  from  a  fury  that  would  have  annihi- 
lated you,"  gasped  the  baronet,  stamping  his  foot  upon 
the  floor.  "  Name  your  terms  at  once.  They  may 
be  so  exorbitant  and  monstrous,  that  I  may  determine, 
at  all  risks,  to  refuse  them,  and  defy  you,  devil  out  of 
hell  as  you  are  !" 

"  Well,  Sir  William,  it  is  of  course  for  yourself  to 
know  best  your  own  interests.  Let  me,  however,  re- 
quest you,  Sir  William,  to  bear  in  mind  what  small 
courtesy  you  have  this  evening  deserved  at  my  hands. 
J  would  have  treated  you  with  the  pity  due  to  misfor- 
tune !"  "  Oh,  God  !  oh,  God  !  that  I  must  bear  all 
this  !"  groaned  the  baronet,  compressing  his  arms  with 
convulsive  force  upon  his  breast.     Oxleigh  smiled. 

"_I  have  little  further  to  add  to  what  I  have  said,  Sir 
William,  unless  you  are  disposed  to  come  to  terms.  It 
will  be  a  terrible  thing  for  you,  if  1  leave  your  house 


184  THE    WAGONER. 

to-night  without  something  like  a  very  definite  under- 
standing with  you.  I  will  be  straightforward  with  you, 
Sir  William,  and  in  a  word  or  two  tell  you  that,  to  se- 
cure my  secrecy  and  co-operation  in  concealing  the 
fact  of  this  young  man's,  Fowler's,  existence — sending 
him  abroad,  and  keeping  him  there — you  must  convey 
to  me  the  fee  of  a  certain  estate  of  yours,  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  the  house  where  I  live,  worth,  as  I  reckon 
it,  2000Z.  per  annum ;  and  further,  must  cause  it  to  be 
believed  by  the  world  that  I  have  been  a  bona  fide  pur- 
chaser of  it."  The  baronet  bit  his  lips,  but  evidenced 
no  symptoms  of  astonishment  or  anger.  "  Well,  sir," 
said  he,  "  I  suppose  I  must  consider  your  proposal." 

"  But  allow  me,  Sir  William — do  you  consider  it  un- 
reasonable, supposing  you  to  have  ascertained  the  truth 
of  my  representations  ?"  "  Why,  certainly,  sir,  you 
might  have  been  more  extravagant,"  replied  the  baro- 
net, gloomily,  and  with  a  reluctant  air. 

"  But,  further,  Sir  William,  this  must  be  done  with 
no  ill  grace — no  airs  of  condescension !  It  must  be 
done  as  between  gentlemen"  continued  the  attorney  ; 
"you  and  I  must  hereafter  know  each  other,  and  asso- 
ciate together  as  equals" — the  baronet's  blood  boiled, 
and  his  eye  flashed — "  we  must  be  intimate,  and  I  shall 
expect  the  honour  of  your  good  word,  and  introduction 
to  your  friends  of  the  county  generally."  While  Ox- 
leigh  said  all  this,  the  tears  of  agony  were  several  times 
nearly  forcing  themselves  from  Sir  William.  He  rose 
from  his  chair,  exclaiming,  in  a  low  tone,  "  I — I  cannot 
think  that  all  this  is  real !" 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  remind  you  that  pen,  ink,  and 
paper  are  before  you,  Sir  William,  and  will  you  favour 
me  with  your  written  promise  to  convey  to  me  the 
property  in  question?"  M  It,  will  be  time  enough  to 
think  of  that,  sir,  to-morrow,  after  we  shall  have  in- 
spected the  parish  register." 

"  Excuse  me,  Sir  William,  but,  with  submission,  we 
can  do  it  now,  conditionally.  Nothing  like  written 
accuracy  on  such  occasions  as  these."     "  Well,  sir !" 


THE    WAGONER.  1S5 

exclaimed  the  baronet,  with  a  profound  sigh :  and, 
flinging  himself  down  in  his  chair,  he  seized  pen  and 
paper,  and  wrote,  to  the  dictation  of  the  attorney  : 

"  Sir  William  Gwynne,  baronet,  of  Gwynne  Hall, 

Shropshire,  hereby  engages  to  convey  to  Job  Oxleigh. 

Esq.,  of  Oxleigh,  in  the  same  county,  the  fee  simple 

situate  in  the  same  county,  and  known  by  the  name  of 

'  The  Sheaves,'  now  of  a  rental  of  20007.  per  annum, 

provided  the  said  Job  Oxleigh  shall  prove  the  truth  of 

his  representations,  and  make  good  the   undertakings 

specified  by  him  to  me,  this   loth  of  October,  1760. 

And,  as  the  said  estate  is  portion  of  the  estate  entailed 

upon  me,  I  hereby  engage  to  suffer  a  recovery  of  the 

same,  in  order  to  cut  off  the  entail,  for  the  purpose  of 

alienating  such  portion  thereof  as  is  above  specified. 

"William  Gwynne."    . 
"Gwynne  Hall,  15th  October,  1760." 

Mr.  Oxleigh  carefully  read  this  agreement  over, 
folded  it  up,  put  it  into  his  pocketbook,  and  expressed 
himself  satisfied  with  it.  "  Now,  Sir  William,"  said 
he,  in  an  altered  tone,  "  we  understand  one  another, 
and  may  therefore  proceed  to  business."  "  Mr.  Ox- 
leigh— Mr.  Oxleigh,  not  quite  so  fast,  sir  !  I  have  not 
yet  ascertained  the  truth  of  your  extraordinary  repre- 
sentations :  till  which  is  done,  I  will  not  stir  one  step 
in  the  proceedings.  I  expect,  in  the  course  of  to-mor- 
row, to  be  shown  the  marriage,  baptismal,  and  burial 
registers,  and  to  be  put  into  possession  of  the  name 
and  residence  of  the  young  man  we  have  been  speak- 
ing of.  And  you  will  allow  me,  sir,  to  take  this  oppor- 
tunity of  telling  you  two  things ;  that  if  I  should  find 
myself,  after  all,  deceived  by  you,  by  my  God,  I  will 
get  you  hanged  ;  or,  if  that  cannot  be  done  by  law,  I 
will  shoot  you  through  the  head.  And  I  beg,  secondly, 
that  you  will  not  talk  so  much  like  my  equal — in  such 
a  strain  of  familiarity  with  me.  Sir,  I  care  not  what 
you  sav  to  this,  or  how  mortified  vou  look.     I  cannot, 

16* 


186  THE    WAGONER. 

and  will  not,  bear  such  freedom.  It  chokes  me  to  hear 
the  tone  of  your  speech  to  me.  We  shall  never  be 
(  friends  so  long  as  you  forget  that  J  am  a  gentleman 
*  and  a  baronet,  and  you — but  no  matter.  Sir,  it  is  against 
my  nature  to  endure  liberties  of  any  kind."  The  bar- 
onet said  all  this  sternly  and  bitterly,  and  drew  himself 
up  to  his  full  height  as  he  concluded.  The  attorney 
was  abashed  by  the  flashing  eye  and  proud  bearing  of 
the  baronet,  and  stammered  something  indistinctly  about 
the  respect  "  certainly  due  to  misfortune." 

"  Sir,  your  attention  a  moment,"  said  the  baronet, 
abruptly,  seeing  Oxleigh  rising  as  if  to  go ;  "  tell  me 
what  is  to  be  done  in  this  matter,  supposing  all  to  prove 
true  that  you  have  said.  How  is  this  young  man  to  be 
found?  how  is  he  to  be  got  securely  rid  of?"  inquired 
the  baronet,  anxiously.  "  Why,  Sir  William,  I  see  no 
other  safe  and  sure  way  than — kidnapping  him  in 
the  night — blindfolded — his  arms  bound — and  in  that 
fashion  conveyed  abroad.  We  could  soon  get  him  to 
the  Channel." 

"  And  who  is  to  do  all  this  ?  Must  we  have  more 
depositaries  of  our  secret?"  inquired  the  baronet,  with 
a  bitter  smile,  echoing  the  expression  a  short  time  be- 
fore used  by  Oxleigh.  "  Do  you  pretend  to  say  that 
your  own  hands  are  sufficient  for  this  cruel — this  hor- 
rid work  ?"  "  No,  Sir  William ;  nor  yet  are  yours 
sufficient,  even  with  mine  ;  but  we  must  neither  of  us, 
therefore,  be  idle.  We  must  hire  at  least  two  desperate 
fellows,  and  pay  them  well — stop  up  their  mouths  with 
bank  notes  ;  and,  besides,  there  is  no  need  for  them  to 
be  intrusted  with  the  reasons  of  what  they  are  doing  : 
we  can  easily  give  them  any  story  we  like." 

"  It  is  a  frightful  business  !  Here,  the  devil  has 
taught  you  how  to  make  a  villain  in  a  moment  out  of  a 
man  who,  but  an  hour  ago,  might  have  believed  his  soul 
to  be  full  of  honour  and  nobility  !  1  am  undone  !  I  am 
fit  for  hell,  for  even  listening  to  you  !"  "  Well,  it  is 
easily  remedied  :  I  can  tell  you  a  way  of  preserving 
spotless  honour — " 


THE    WAGONER.  187 

{{What  do  you  mean,  sir?"  inquired  the  baronet, 
abruptly.  "By  simply  giving  up  your  all — surrender- 
ing your  title  and  estates  to  a — wagoner — a  common 
wagoner — making  up  to  him  two  or  three  hundred 
thousand  pounds — and  earning  your  own  bread  for  the 
rest  of  your  life.  That,  now,  Sir  William,  would  cer- 
tainly be  noble  !"  The  baronet  groaned.  "  We  are 
all  the  creatures  of  circumstances,  Sir  William:  we 
must  all  yield  to  fate  !"  "  Patter  your  nonsense  else- 
where, sir  !"  replied  the  baronet,  angrily  ;  "  I  want  no 
devil's  preaching  here  /" 

"  I  wonder,  Sir  William,"  retorted  Oxleigh,  thorough- 
ly nettled  by  the  lofty  bearing  of  the  baronet,  and  the 
contemptuous  tone  in  which  he  addressed  him,  "  you 
can  so  easily  forget  that  I,  who  am  really  and  in  fact 
your  master,  yet  consent  to  become  your  friend — your 
adviser  !  Have  I  not  been  moderate  in  my  demands  1 
Wrhat  if  I  had  demanded  half  your  fortune  ?"  "  And 
how  do  I  know  but  you  will  hereafter  ?  Let  me  advise 
you,  Mr.  Oxleigh,  not  to  irritate  a  desperate  man ;  for 
I  now  tell  you,  that  if  you  were  to  increase  your  de- 
mands on  me  above  what  is  already,  perhaps,  too  easily 
conceded,  I  would  certainly  take  your  life  !" 

"  Sir  William — 1  had  better  be  frank  with  you,  as  I 
said  before — I  never  thought  I  should  be  free  from 
danger — though  '  nothing  venture,  nothing  have' — that 
my  life  would  be  otherwise  than  in  perpetual  jeopardy 
— and  so  I  will  at  once  tell  you  what  arrangements  I 
have  made  to-  provide  for  my  own  security.  I  have 
drawn  up  a  full  statement  of  the  matters  which  I  have 
mentioned  to  you  this  evening,  sealed  it  up,  and  placed 
it  in  the  hands  of  my  London  agent,  with  explicit  di- 
f  rections  for  him  to  open  it,  directly  he  hears  of  my 
death,  either  naturally  or  violently,  for  at  least  nine 
years  to  come  ;  so  that  not  only  would  it  do  you  no 
good  to  take  away  my  life,  Sir  William,  but  it  would 
immediately  ruin  you."  "  Ah  !  Well,  here,  then,  is 
an  end  of  our  bargain.  Give  me  up  the  paper  I  have 
nut  into  your  hands  !     I  will  not  treat  with  you  on  such 


188  THE   WAGONER. 

terms  !"  said  the  baronet,  his  face  blanched  to  a  whiter 
hue  than  before. 

"  You  cannot  help  yourself,  Sir  William  V  replied 
the  attorney,  calmly.  "  Only  be  pleased  to  reflect — 
and  you  will  yourself  see  that  you  cannot."  *  *  * 
"  Mr.  Oxleigh,"  said  the  baronet,  suddenly,  "  I  have 
been  thinking  of  this  matter.  Supposing  all  to  be  as 
you  say,  and  it  should  prove  necessary  to  send  this 
man  out  of  the  country,  there  is  surely,  there  can  cer- 
tainly be,  no  need  for  my  appearance  or  meddling  in 
the  business  ?  /need  not,  personally,  have  a  hand  in 
it !  Cannot  I  leave  it  all  to  you,  Mr.  Oxleigh,  and 
your  assistants  V 

"  Then,  Sir  William,  what  security  would  you  have  1 
How  would  you  know  that  I  had  really  performed  my 
promise  to  you?  That  I  had  not  played  you  false? 
Besides,  Sir  William,  this  is  a  dangerous,  a  very  black 
business — a  perilous,  a  deadly  job  ;  and  I  cannot  con- 
sent to  bear  it  all  upon  my  own  shoulders — to  stand 
alone  in  it.  You  must  help  me,  Sir  William — must 
work  as  hard,  and  risk  as  much  as  I.  Our  hands  must 
both  assist  in  removing  this  obnoxious  person  !  I  am 
a  man  of  my  word,  Sir  William  ! — I  cannot  forego  this  ! 
Tov  be  equally  safe,  we  must  be  equally  guilty,  Sir 
William  ! — equally  committed  to  each  other  !"  *     *     * 

"  Pray,  sir,  what  did  you  say  was  this  young  man's 
name  ?"  "  William  Fowler  Gwynne — but  he  goes  by 
the  name  of  William  Fowler  only." 

"  Does  he  know  that  he  bears  the  name  of  Gwynne, 
sir  ?  Has  he  any  inkling  of  what  you  have  now  been 
telling  me  V     "  No  more  than  the  dead  !" 

"  What  is  he  now  ?"  "  I  am  not  quite  sure,  Sir 
William.  He  is  poor  and  ignorant — a  carter,  I  believe, 
or  wagoner ;  but   I  shall  know  more  by  to-morrow." 

"  Till  to-morrow,  then,  sir,  we  must  part,"  said  the 
baronet.  "  Be  here  to-morrow  at  nine,  and  we  will 
say  more  on  this  subject.  Good  evening,  sir."  "  Good 
evening,  Sir  William ;  good  evening.  I  shall  be  with 
you  again  at  nine  to-morrow ;  and  hope  we  shall  then 


THE    WAGONER.  189 

be  better  friends.  Good  evening,  Sir  William" — and 
Oxleigh  presumptuously  tendered  his  hand  to  the  bar- 
onet, who  reluctantly  laid  his  cold  fingers — the  flesh 
creeping  the  while  with  disgust — in  those  of  Oxleigh; 
and  in  a  moment  or  two  he  was  left  alone.  He  sat 
back  in  his  ample  armchair,  for  nearly  two  hours,  in 
stupified  silence.  He  was  to  have  written  three  or  four 
important  election  letters,  and  one  to  his  intended  wife, 
that  evening ;  but  being  now  unequal  to  the  task,  he 
thrust  his  table  from  him,  rang  for  candles,  and  went 
to  bed,  saying  to  his  valet  that  he  was  ill.  It  need 
hardly  be  said  that  he  passed  a  fearful  night ;  several 
times  being  on  the  point  of  leaping  out  of  bed,  and 
committing  suicide.  True  to  his  time,  the  villain  Ox- 
leigh made  his  appearance  at  the  hall  as  the  clock  was 
striking  nine.  Sir  William  met  him  with  a  fevered 
brow  and  bloodshot  eyes  \  and  in  half  an  hour's  time 
both  of  them  stepped  into  the  carriage,  which  Sir  Wil- 
liam had  ordered  to  be  in  readiness.  They  drove 
rapidly  into  Somersetshire  ;  and  Sir  William  returned 
thunderstruck  with  what  he  had  seen — ample  and  in- 
dubitable corroboration  of  all  Oxleigh  had  told  him 
overnight — a  ruined,  a  blighted  man.  It  was  long  be- 
fore he  recovered  the  stunning  effects  of  the  disclosure. 
He  gradually  became  passive  in  the  hands  of  Oxleigh. 
The  servants  at  the  hall,  and  Sir  William's  friends, 
equally  wondered  what  could  be  the  reason  of  Oxleigh's 
perpetual  presence  at  the  hall. 

In  three  weeks'  tyne  it  was  a  matter  of  notoriety 
over  the  country,  that  Job  Oxleigh,  Esq.,  of  Oxleigh, 
had  purchased  "  The  Sheaves"  estate  from  Sir  William 
Gwynne  ;  and  shortly  afterward  occurred  the  seizure 
with  which  this  narrative  commences.  Sir  William 
and  Oxleigh,  with  two  desperate  fellows  hired  by  Ox- 
leigh, were  the  four  that  set  upon  Forster,  and,  subse- 
quently, William  Fowler.  Sir  William  became  one 
of  the  most  miserable  of  men.  His  altered  demeanour 
and  habits  became  matter  of  public  observation.  He 
contrived  to  have  it  given  out  that  he  had  become  ad- 


1^0  THE    WAGONER. 

dieted  to  the  gaming  table  ;  and  the  subtle  Oxleigh  en- 
couraged the  rumour — even  allowing  himself  to  be 
thought  one  of  Sir  William's  winners  !  That  consum- 
mate scoundrel  contrived  to  write  himself,  in  two  or 
three  years'  time,  Job  Oxleigh,  Esq.,  M.P. ;  and  was 
on  terms  of  intimate  acquaintance  with  most  of  the 
leading  men  in  the  county.  He  easily  made  his  pres- 
ence, in  a  manner,  necessary  to  the  wretched  baro- 
net, whose  nobler  soul  drooped  daily  under  the  pres- 
sure of  guilt  contracted  in  a  weak  and  evil  hour,  and 
so  wormed  himself  into  his  confidence,  that,  what  with 
wheedling  and  menace,  he  obtained  an  introduction  to 
a  female  relative  of  the  baronet's,  and  married  her. 

Hurrying  on  an  interval  of  several  years — for  the 
few  remaining  scenes  of  this  black  drama  must  now 
be  passed  rapidly  before  the  reader's  eyes — let  us  ap- 
proach the  mansion  of  Job  Oxleigh,  Esq.,  M.P.,  on  an 
evening  in  the  winter  of  the  year  1768.  He  was  en- 
tertaining a  numerous  and  gay  dinner  party,  consisting 
of  some  of  the  most  distinguished  people  in  the  county 
Sir  William  Gwynne  was  to  have  been  one  of  them, 
but  excused  himself  on  the  score  of  illness.  Many 
were  the  toasts  that  had  been  drunk,  and  were  drink- 
ing ;  and  the  health  of  the  host  was  being  proposed, 
and  received  with  complimentary  enthusiasm,  when  a 
servant  brought  in  a  letter,  which  he  put  into  the  hands 
of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Ebury,  the  vicar  of  the  parish,  a  staid 
and  learned  man,  who,  after  a  polite  nod  to  the  host,, 
opened  it,  and  read  with  much  surprise  as  follows  r — 
"  The  master  of  the  workhouse  presents  respects  to 
the  Rev.  Dr.  Ebury,  and  begs  to  inform  him  that  there 
is  a  pauper  in  the  workhouse,  now  in  dying  circum- 
stances, who  has  ^so  disturbed,  for  some  time,  every- 
body in  the  house  with  his  groans  and  lamentations, 
that  it  has  been  found  necessary  to  put  him  into  a  room 
by  himself.  He  says  he  has  something  very  heavy 
on  his  mind,  and  humbly  begs  the  favour  of  a  clergy- 
man's being  sent  for,  when  he  will  make  an  important 
confession.     The  Rev.  Dr.  Ebury  is  respectfully  ia» 


THE    WAGONER.  191 

formed,  that  the  man  is  pronounced  to  be  in  extreme 
circumstances,  and  that  unless  the  doctor  can  come 
immediately,  it  may  prove  too  late." 

Great  was  the  astonishment  with  which  Dr.  Ebury 
perused  this  letter,  which  he  took  an  opportunity  of 
reading  aloud  to  the  company,  as  at  once  a  sufficient 
and  very  interesting  excuse  for  leaving.  He  promised 
to  return  to  the  party  that  evening,  and  communicate 
any  intelligence  he  might  receive.  Mr.  Oxleigh  was 
observed  to  start  as  Dr.  Ebury  went  on ;  and  when  he 
had  finished  reading  the  letter,  Mr.  Oxleigh  turned 
deadly  pale.  Fortunately,  however,  for  him,  he  had 
been  complaining  of  indisposition  several  times  in  the 
course  of  the  evening  ;  and  what  was  really  the  con- 
sequence of  consternation  and  guilt,  was  attributed  by 
those  around  him  to  the  cause  he  assigned.  His 
hands,  his  whole  limbs  shook  ;  and  his  eyes  looked 
glassily  around  the  no  longer  welcome  company ;  for 
he  felt  frightful  misgivings  that  his  name  might  be 
implicated  in  the  confessions  which  the  clergyman  was 
gone  to  receive  I 

When  Dr.  Ebury  reached  the  workhouse,  he  was 
conducted  alone  to  the  bedside  of  the  man  who  had 
wished  to  see  him.  He  sat  beside  the  gaunt  and  ghastly 
figure  of  a  once  tall  and  powerful  mam  The  eyes 
were  sunk  and  fixed,  the  flesh  fallen  away  from  his 
high  cheek  bones,  his  bloodless  lips  were  retracted, 
and  his  huge  bony  hands,  comparatively  fleshless, 
clasped  together  on  his  breast,  as  in  an  attitude  of 
prayer.  He  looked  a  fearful  figure — the  remnant  of  a 
ruffian. 

Dr.  Ebury  knelt  down  beside  the  dying  man,  and 
uttered  a  few  words  of  prayer  over  him. 

"  And  what  have  you  to  say  to  me,  my  friend  V  in- 
quired Dr.  Ebury,  as  soon  as  they  were  left  alone. 
The  man  bent  his  staring  eyes  glassily  on  the  clergy- 
man, and  with  some  difficulty,  owing  to  a  convulsive 
twiching  about  the  throat,  gasped,  "  Ay,  sir,  ay  !  much 
to  say,  and  short  my  time  !     Lord  have  mercy  on  me  i 


X92  THE    WAGONER. 

Oh,  good  Lord,  pardon  my  wicked  soul !  Lord,  Lord, 
forgive  me,  and  I  will  confess  all !"  The  man's  limbs 
shook,  and  his  lips  worked  to  and  fro  violently,  evi- 
dencing the  presence  of  terrible  emotion.  He  then 
gasped  and  faltered,  at  intervals,  somewhat  to  the  fol- 
lowing effect :  "  Doctor,  I  have  lived  in  guilt  almost 
from  a  child — wo  to  me  that  I  was  ever  born  !  I  have 
been  a  robber,  and  a  smuggler,  and  even— even" — his 
retracted  lips  disclosed  his  white  teeth  in  a. frightful 
manner — "  a— murderer  !  Ay — I  have  !  But  there  is 
nothing  weighs  down  my  soul  so  heavily  in  these 
my  last  moments,  so  heavily  as  one  wickedness  I  have 
done  to  an  innocent,  unolfending  man — for,  black  and 
cruel  as  it  will  seem,  it  may  be  yet  in  my  power  to 
make  amends.  I  shall  break  my  oath — "  Here  a 
convulsive  twitching  seized  his  whole  frame,  and  Dr. 
Ebury,  under  the  apprehension  that  the  man  was  dy- 
ing, called  for  assistance.  It  was  nearly  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  before  the  power  of  speech  returned.  "  Sir, 
will  God  curse  me  if  I  break  an  oath  I  ought  never  to 
have  made  ?"  Dr.  Ebury  solemnly  replied,  "  No  ;  es- 
pecially if  breaking  it  will  tend  to  repair  the  evil  you 
have  done  !"  The  man  seemed  encouraged. 

"  It  is  more  than  eight  years  ago  now,  sir — close 
going  for  nine — that  a  man  of  the  name  of  Isaacs  and 
I,  both  being  smugglers  at  the  time,  were  hired  to  help 
in  kidnapping  a  man  of  the  name  of  Fowler — "  "  Fow- 
ler! Fowler!"  exclaimed  Dr.  Ebury,  bending  down 
breathlessly  to  catch  every  word,  uttered  more  faintly 
every  moment  by  the  dying  man. 

"  Yes,  sir — Fowler  was  his  name,  William  Fowler 
— send  him  off  to  America,  and  Isaacs  with  him ;  and 
cruelly  did  we  use  the  poor  harmless  fellow !" 

:'  And  why  was  it  all  V  "  Because,  sir,  our  employers 
told  us  he  stood  in  the  way  of  their  rights  !" 

"  What  were  their  names  ?"  inquired  Dr.  Ebury, 
bending  down  his  ear  to  the  very  lips  of  the  dying  man, 
to  catch  every  breath  of  sound.  "  Sir  William  G  wynne, 
and — and  Squire  Ox — Ox — leigh — " 


THE    WAGONER.  193 

Dr.  Ebury  turned  suddenly  pale,  and  almost  over- 
threw the  chair  on  which  he  had  been  sitting. 

"  Go  on — go  on !  God  give  you  strength  to  tell  all 
you  wish,  and  truly  !"  «*  Amen  !  amen  !  amen  !"  re^- 
plied  the  dying  man,  closing  his  eyes.  His  breath 
was  evidently  beginning  to  fail. 

"  Speak,  before  it  is  too  late — relieve  your  soul — " 
"Mr.  Ox— Ox— leigh— paid  me— had,  in  all, hundreds 
of  pounds — Fowler — now  in  America — hope — alive — 
New- York — Isaacs — order    to    kill — oh — save — save 
— pray!"     The   wretched  man's    voice    ceased,    and 
gave  place   to  a  horrid  choking,  gurgling  sound — his 
hands  quivered  a  moment  with   final  agonies — there 
was  a  sudden  start — his  jaw  dropped — his  eyes  looked 
upward  with  a  fixed  leaden  stare — and  Dr.  Ebury  sat 
gazing  on  as  fearful  a  corpse  as  he  had  ever  witnessed. 
He  was  so  stunned  with  what  he  had  heard,  that  he 
did  not  think  of  moving  for  some  minutes  from  his  seat 
beside    the   dead  man.     "  Sir  William  Gwynne  !   Mr. 
Oxleigh !"    he   repeated,   scarcely    believing   he   had 
heard  the  words  aright.     He  left  the  workhouse  with 
such  agitation  in  his  countenance  and  trepidation  in  his 
gestures,  as  sufficiently  alarmed  the  master  and  others 
whom  he  encountered,  and  who  knew  the  dreary  errand 
on  which  he  had  been  summoned.     He  returned  not  to 
Mr.  Oxleigh's  party,  but  hurried  to  his  own  house,  be- 
took himself  to  his  study,  and  instantly  committed  to 
paper  what  he  had  heard,  determined,  whatever  might 
happen,  to  preserve  such  a  faithful  record  as  he  could 
swear  to. 

About  an  hour  after  Dr.  Ebury  had  left  the  work* 
house,  Mr.  Oxleigh  made  his  appearance  there,  having 
suddenly  dismissed  his  visiters  on  the  plea  of  illness. 

'*  Is  the  man  dead,  sir  V  he  inquired,  falteringly^ 
from  the  master.  "  What — the  man  Dr.  Ebury  came  to 
see,  an  hour  or  so  since  ?"  "  The  same — ay,  the  same," 
replied  Oxleigh,  hastily.  "  Yes,  sir.  He  died  while 
Dr.  Ebury  was  with  him  ;  and  he  has — " 

11  Give  me  a  light,  sir,  and  let  me  be  shown  into  the 
I  17 


394  THE    WAGONER* 

room  alone.  It  is  of  consequence,"  said  Oxleiglr, 
sternly ;  and  presently,  with  a  candle  in  his  hand,  he 
entered  the  room  where  the  corpse,  yet  untouched,  was 
lying.  He  shut  the  door,  and  bolted  it ;  approached 
the  corpse,  and  let  the  light  of  the  candle  fall  upon  the 
ghastly  features.  His  own  countenance  was  blanched 
in  a  moment.  "  So — it  is  you  I  Dam — ned  ruffian  ln 
he  gasped,  in  a  low  choked  tone,  his  body  half  recoil- 
ing from  that  of  the  dead  man  ;  his  eyes  gleaming  with 
a  diabolical  stare  upon  those  of  the  corpse  ;  his  left 
hand  elevating  his  candle,  and  his  right,  with  the  fist 
convulsively  clenched,  extended,  for  nearly  a  minute, 
in  quivering  contact  with  the  face  of  the  deceased. 
He  struck  the  cold  corpse — and  then,  overcome  with 
horror,  sank  down  into  a  chair  ;  his  candle  dropped — 
was  extinguished — and  then  the  dead  and  living  ruffians 
were  left  together  in  darkness. 

In  a  state  of  distraction  bordering  on  phrensy,  Oxleigh 
made  his  way  from  the  workhouse,  amazing  the  people 
lie  passed  by  the  wildness  and  agitation  apparent  in  his 
countenance.  He  hurried  on  horseback  to  Gwynne 
Hall,  and  asked  hastily  for  Sir  William  Gwynne.  He 
was  informed  that  the  baronet,  feeling  worse  that  eve- 
ning, had  been  some  hours  in  bed.  *'  Nevermind,  sir," 
said  Oxleigh  to  the  thunderstruck  valet;  "  show  me 
into  Sir  William's  chamber  instantly.  Tell  him  my 
name,  and  that  my  business  is  of  mortal  consequence  !" 
The  valet  returned  shortly,  and  conducted  Mr.  Oxleigh 
at  once  to  the  bedside  of  his  master. 

"  Well,  sir — well,"  commenced  the  baronet,  in  a  low 
and  hurried  tone.  "  What  is  the  matter  1  For  God's 
sake,  sir,  what  has  happened?"  he  inquired,  in  still 
greater  agitation,  seeing  Oxleigh  stand  speechless,  and 
the  image  of  despair. 

"  Sir  William,  it  is  all  over  with  us  ;  we  are  discov- 
ered !"  at  length  replied  Oxleigh,  in  a  gasping  whis- 
per, laying  his  shaking  hand  on  the  baronet's  shoulder. 
Sir  William  sprung  up  in  bed,  as  if  he  had  received  an 
electric  shock,  tossed  of  the  bedclothes,  and  lay  curved 


THE    WAGONER.  195 

srp  and  crouching  in  the  midst  of  them,  with  his  hands 
clutching"  the  hair  of  his  head,  and  his  countenance  full 
of  frightful  expression.  It  did  little  more  than  reflect 
the  horror-stricken  features  of  Oxleigh.  There  was  a 
guilty  pair!  The  baronet,  without  having  uttered  a 
syllable,  slowly  sank  again  into  bed,  and  lay  there,  ab- 
solutely gasping.  Neither  of  them  spoke.  At  length 
Oxleigh  recovered  himself  sufficiently  to  say,  "  Sir 
William,  Sir  William,  this  is  very  truth  ;  but  we  must 
not  shrink  in  the  hour  of  danger.  We  must  meet  it 
like  men.  We  must,  Sir  William,"  he  continued,  ey- 
ing the  dumbstruck,  stupified  baronet,  who  scarce 
seemed  to  hear  him,  but  mumbled  to  himself.  At 
length,  Oxleigh  distinguished  the  words,  *AIs  it  death, 
or  transportation  ?"  "  You  are  rambling,  Sir  William  ! 
What  are  yon  talking  about  ?  It  is  weak  to  behave 
thus,  in  snch  an  awful  crisis.  Remember  how  you 
have  implicated  me,  Sir  William  I" 

The  baronet  was  roused  by  these  last  words  from  his 
lethargy.  He  turned  his  head  suddenly  towards  Ox- 
leigh, looked  at  him  a  few  seconds,  and  then  suddenly 
leaped  towards  him,  grasped  him  by  the  collar,  and 
shook  him  with  frantic  fury,  exclaiming,  "You  fiend  ! 
you  fiend1. — to  talk  thus  to  :.ie  l*5  He  had  hardly  ut- 
tered the  words,  however,  before  his  hold  relaxed,  and 
he  dropped  into  bed  again  in  a  swoon.  Oxleigh  rang 
the  bell ;  and  when  the  valet  made  his  appearance,  he 
informed  him  he  was  going  to  bring  the  physician,  and 
suddenly  left  the  hall.  He  hurried  through  the  lonely 
park  on  foot;  and  when  he  had  reached  the  thickest 
clump  of  trees,  he  paused,  leaned  against  the  glistening 
trunk  of  an  old  ash,  and,  with  folded  arms  and  bent 
brows,  pondered  his  fearful  fortunes. 

'•  What  is  to  be  done  !  Dr.  Ebury  has  taken  down 
his  confession,  and  has  not  returned,  as  he  promised, 
to  my  house!  Then  he  knows  all '.  .Messengers  will 
be  sent  off  to  America,  Sir  William  and  I  shall  be  ar- 
rested, we  shall  be  confronted  with  Fowler  in  a  court 
of  justice— or— I  must  away  betimes  !     And  yet  sup- 

12 


J 96  THE    WAGONER. 

pose,  after  all,  the  man  died  before  he  could  make  con- 
fession !  Suppose  he  was  unable  to  speak  distinctly  ! 
Suppose  he  has  not  told  names — has  not  mentioned  me 
— and  all  is  yet  safe  !  There  is  a  straw  to  cling  to  ! 
But  suppose  he  has  !  My  neck  aches  !  I  must  away  ! 
I  must  leave  all  behind  me.  Yes — Sir  William 
Gwynne  !  Well — what  if  I  do  leave  him  ?  Would 
he  risk  his  life  for  me  ?  Then  why  I  for  him  ?  I  en- 
tered into  all  this  to  serve  my  ends,  not  his  !  I  must 
away — be  off  to  America !  This  night — ay,  this  very 
night — and  alone  !  If  I  had  but  known  where  the 
cursed  caitiff  that  has  betrayed  me  was  to  have  been 
found,  I  would  have  silenced  him  !"  Oxleigh  clutched 
his  hands  involuntary,  as  though  they  were  grasping  the 
dead  man's  throat.  "  This  is  why  he  has  been  ab- 
sconding the  last  six  months  from  Sir  William  and  me 
— the  pitiful  villain — the  cowardly,  treacherous  devil !" 
He  sprang  from  where  he  had  been  standing,  made 
for  where  he  had  fastened  his  horse,  galloped  at  his  ut- 
most speed  over  the  highway,  and  was  soon  at  home. 
After  a  night  of  terrible  agitation,  he  determined  to  take 
the  earliest  opportunity  of  calling  at  the  vicarge,  and 
seeing  Dr.  Ebury,  where  he  could  but  learn  the  worst. 
By  fen  o'clock  he  was  knocking  at  the  vicar's  ;  but  to 
his  consternation,  he  found  that  Dr.  Ebury  had  set  off 
an  hour  before  in  a  carriage  and  four  for  London,  in 
company  with  Mr.  Parkhurst,  a  solicitor  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. There  was  no  mistaking  that  move,  thought 
Oxleigh !  He  returned  home,  and  hastily  wrote  to  Sir 
William  Gwynne : — 

"  Fate  thrusts  me  from  England.  When  you  read 
this  I  shall  be  on  my  way  to  foreign  parts.  I  can  do 
no  good  in  England  for  myself  or  for  you.  I  leave  you 
bound  to  the  stake  by  your  own  weakness.  Accursed, 
damned  be  the  hour  I  ever  saw  you,  or  discovered  the 
means  of  my  ruin.  J.  O." 

He  altered  his  intentions  suddenly,  however,  after 


THE    WAGONER.  197 

•writing  and  sending  the  above  note  to  Sir  William 
Gwynne  ;  for  his  terrified  domestics  found  him  that 
morning  lying  in  the  paved  yard  behind  his  house,  hor- 
ribly crushed  and  mangled.  He  had  thrown  himself, 
head  foremost,  out  of  the  highest  window  ! 

The  scene  must  once  more  shift  to  America.  In 
the  large  room  of  an  inn  in  New- York,  one  Saturday 
evening  in  February,  1769,  was  collected  together 
the  usual  miscellaneous  assemblage  of  sailors,  small, 
tradesmen,  and  others  fond  of  "  noisy  song  and  stirring 
draught."  It  differed  little  from  a  crowded  English 
taproom.  Liquor  circulated  freely,  and  conversation, 
if  such  name  it  deserved,  was  brisk  and  boisterous. 
There  were  several  recently  arrived  British  sailors  in 
the  room,  who  about  eight  o'clock  left  to  return  to  their 
respective  vessels,  leaving  behind  them  two  of  their 
passengers.  These  men  seemed  silent  and  reserved, 
even  beyond  the  proverbial  taciturnity  of  Englishmen  ; 
and  for  upward  of  an  hour  had  drunk  their  liquor  in 
quiet,  without  exchanging  a  syllable  with  any  one  about 
them.  They  continued  drinking,  however,  till  liquor 
opened  the  sluices  of  speech — at  least  of  one — who 
took  the  opportunity  of  the  other's  temporary  absence 
to  inform  a  listening  coterie  that  had  gradually  collected 
about  the  benqh  on  which  he  sat,  of  -the  reason  for  his 
visiting  America.  This  prudent  person  was  no  other 
than  he  who  was  first  brought  before  the  eye  of  the 
reader — Richard  Forster,  who  had,  during  the  seven 
or  eight  years  which  had  elapsed,  been  elevated  to  the 
dignity  of  constable;  and  he  told  his  gaping  auditors 
that  his  and  his  companion's  errand  to  America,  in 
company  with  a  'torney  and  his  clerk,  was  to  discover 
a  kidnapped  Englishman  of  the  name  of  Fowler  ! 

"  I  suppose  there  isn't  any  one  here  that  knows  Bill 
Fowler,  or  where  he  may  be  found  ?"  inquired  the  gar- 
rulous and  foolish  Englishman,  whose  simple  intellects 
were  getting  more  and  more  disturbed  with  what  he 
was  drinking.     He  repeated  his  question. 

17* 


198  THE    WAGONER. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  you  idiot !"  growled  his  com- 
panion, that  moment  returning,  and  resuming  his  seat 
by  Forster  ;  "  hold  your  — —  tongue,  you  fool !"  and 
his  brother  constable  pinched  him  cruelly  by  the  arm. 
Forster's  question  was  answered  in  the  negative  by 
those  around,  who  began  to  ask  questions  in  their 
turn. 

"Does  any  of  you — "  "St!  st!"  whispered  his 
scowling  companion,  kicking  Forster's  shins  under  the 
table.  But  his  tongue  had  been  set  going,  and  could 
not  easily  be  stopped. 

"  Does  any  one  know  a  fellow  of  the  name  of — 
of — of — Le — Le — hang  me,  I've  forgotten  the  name  ! 
What  is  it,  Dobbes  V  he  hiccoughed  to  his  companion, 
who  was  smoking  his  pipe  with  prodigious  energy. 
li  Oh,  you  fool !  Don't  speak  to  me.  You  de- 
serve your  tongue  cut  out  of  your  head  !  Gentlemen," 
he  continued,  addressing  those  around,  "  all  that  this 
silly  chap  has  said  is  blather — mere  moonshine.  He's 
drunk !  We  have  but  come  to  America  to-day,  and 
for  the  purpose  of  settling  in  this  town  if  we  can." 
But  his  auditors'  curiosity  was  excited,  and  could  not 
be  so  easily  allayed.  One  of  them  was — Francis  Le- 
roux  himself;  and  the  consternation  with  which  he 
listened  to  the  gabble  of  the  English  stranger  may  be 
imagined.  He  had  only  that  afternoon  come  up  to 
New- York  to  see  whether  there  were  any  long-ex- 
pected letters  for  him  from  England  ;  for  his  own  let- 
ter had  been  long  unanswered,  and  he  was  getting 
furious,  and  bent  on  mischief.  He  was  too  practised 
a  villain  to  lose  his  presence  of  mind  in  such  an  emer- 
gency as  that  in  which  he  now  suddenly  found  himself 
placed.  Drinking  a  little  deeper  from  the  glass  that 
stood  before  him,  he  mingled  with  the  throng  around 
Forster,  and  with  as  indifferent  a  tone  as  he  could  as- 
sume, inquired,  "  Why,  what  does  your  government  in- 
tend to  do  with  the  knave  ?"  "  It  has  sent  out  us  four 
gentlemen  to  seek  these  two  men,  Bill  Fowler  (who, 
would  you  believe  it,  is  an  old  friend  of  mine)  and 


THE-   WAGONER.  199 

Le — Le — Le — what's  his  name  1 — back  to  England. 
The  whole  thing  is  discovered !  'Tis  all  known ! 
This  Bill  Fowler  is  worth — " 

"  Now,  I'll  tell  thee  what,  thou  exceeding  ass  !"  ex- 
claimed his  companion,  a  huge  fellow,  flinging  down 
his  pipe,  "  if  thou  sayst  one  word  more,  I'll  take  thee 
into  the  street,  and  put  my  fist  upon  thee  till  thou  art 
beaten  sober  again.  Come  away,  you  rascal !"  and 
Dick  was  dragged  out  of  the  room,  amid  the  jokes  and 
laughter  of  the  whole  assemblage. 

Neither  joke  nor  laugh,  however,  fell  from  the  quiv- 
ering lip  of  Leroux.  He  presently  left  the  inn,  and 
made  for  the  post  where  he  had  tied  up  his  nag,  which 
he  saddled,  mounted,  and  rode  at  a  smart  pace  out  of 
the  town,  desirous  of  reaching  his  and  Richard  Fow- 
ler's residence  as  quickly  as  his  horse  would  carry  him. 
Two  schemes  suggested  themselves  to  his  busy  thought 
as  he  rode  along.  The  one  was  to  make  drunk,  and 
then  murder  Fowler  that  very  night,  and  then  start  for 
South  America.  The  other  to  conceal  him,  by  getting 
him  to  undertake  a  journey  far  inland,  and  keeping 
him  there  on  one  pretext  of  business  or  another,  till 
Leroux  could  make  terms  for  himself  by  turning  king's 
evidence  and  betraying  his  employers. 

"  I  know  ^vell  how  to  dispose  of  him,"  thought  Le- 
roux, as  he  rode  slowly  up  a  hill  to  ease  his  nag  ; 
M  and  yet  not  have  to  charge  myself  with  his  murder. 
Poor  Fowler !  He  is  a  harmless  fellow,  too — and 
what  harm  has  he  ever  done  me?  But  I've  done  too 
much  against  him  already  to  stop  now  i  Besides,  Sir 
William  Gwynne's  last  letter — and  I've  sworn  to  obey 
him !  So— let  me  see  how  it  might  be  done.  Sup- 
pose I  wait  till  to-morrow  evening,  and  then  ask  Fow- 
ler quietly  to  drink  with  me  at  my  little  place  in  the 
Lake  field.  He  is  easy  and  simple,  especially  in  the 
matter  of  drink,  which  I  can  make  him  swill  till  he 
knows  not  whether  head  or  heels  are  uppermost.  Then 
I  will  part  with  him  ;  and  to  return  home  he  must  pass 
the  Dorlbad,  which  is  a  rotten  and  dangerous  bridge, 


200  ,  THE    WAGONER. 

scarcely  passable  by  daytime,  and  while  sober — and 
there  is  a  rushing  stream  underneath,  with  a  thirty  feet 
fall !  Suppose  I  send  him  out,  then,  reeling,  and  nearly 
blind  drunk — and  shake  hands  with  him  at  parting, 
telling  him  to  take  care  of  himself — (Lord,  there  carCt 
be  murder  if  I  say  that !)  Well — he  comes  to  the 
bridge — he  staggers — his  foot — his  foot — his  foot  slips 
— I  watch  him  from  a  distance — do  not  see  him — there 
is  a  faint  crash — and  I  am  off  that  night  for  South — " 

Leroux's  horse  had  been  standing  still,  while  these 
fearful  thoughts  passed  through  the  head  of  its  rider, 
who  suddenly  heard  the  clatter  of  horses'  hoofs  ap- 
proaching from  behind,  at  a  smart  pace  ;  and,  turning 
round  his  head,  he  found  a  small  party  of  horsemen  ap- 
proaching him.  He  was  a  little  surprised  at  this,  for 
the  road  was  lonely  and  unfrequented ;  but  surprise' 
gave  way  to  a  very  different  feeling,  when,  on  being 
overtaken,  one  of  the  party  stopped  his  horse  beside 
him,  and — another  snatching  hold  of  his  bridle — seized" 
him  with  the  grasp  of  a  Hercules  by  the  collar,  and  in 
a  rough  English  voice,  said,  "  Isaac  Isaacs — thou  art 
my  man ;  and,  dead  or  alive,  I  will  have  thee  in  Eng- 
land before  thou  art  two  months  older.  I  say,"  he  con- 
tinued, tightening  his  vicelike  hold ;  "  hast  forgotten 
what  an  English  bulldog  is,  Isaac  ?" 

Confounded,  as  he  well  might  be,  with  the  sudden- 
ness of  the  seizure,  and  more  so  at  hearing  his  real 
name  spoken,  the  first  time  for  many  years,  Isaacs,  who 
was  a  very  muscular  man,  swung  his  assailant  nearly 
off  his  horse  with  a  sudden  jerk  of  his  arm.  Two  pis- 
tols were  instantly  levelled  at  his  head. 

"  Dost  see  what  are  before  thee  V  inquired  the  man 
who  had  seized  him,  and  still  kept  his  hold.  "  They 
will  teach  thee  reason !"  "  Why — are  you  English- 
men?" growled  Isaac^  "and  is  this  the  way — " 

"  Ay,  we  are  English — and  stout  men,  too !"  re- 
plied the  brawny  constable  ;  "  and  to  show  thee  what 
stuff  we  are  made  of — if  thou  hast  English  blood 
enough  left  in  thee  to  relish  a  round  at  bruising,  (thou 


THE    WAGONER.  201 

art  a  big  fellow,)  and  wilt  dismount.  I  will  make  thee 
swear  a  horse  kicked  thee,  Isaacs  !';  shaking  his  huge 
fist  at  his  prisoner.  "  Come  !  art  for  a  turn  ?"'  u  A 
likely  thing!"  muttered  Isaacs,  without  stirring  a 
muscle. 

<k  So  !  thou  wilt  not  fight  un,  eh  ?  Well— to  be  sure 
thou  hast  lived  in  America,  and  forgotten  our  English 
ways.  But  we  shall  teach  thee  them,  Master  Isaacs!" 
he  continued — and  observing  his  prisoner  with  his 
hand  in  his  bosom,  trying  to  unclasp  a  knife,  he  aimed 
such  a  tremendous  blow  at  the  side  of  his  head,  that 
his  prisoner  would  have  fallen  from  his  horse,  had  he 
not  still  been  held  by  the  left  hand  of  the  constable. 
Isaacs  was  completely  stunned  ;  and  before  he  could 
recover  himself,  his  arms  were  tied  tightly  to sr ether 
behind  his  back,  and  the  rope  passed  once  round  his 
neck,  in  such  a  way.  that  if  he  struggled  at  all,  he 
would  find  himself  nearly  choked. 

';  Now  look,  Isaacs,"  said  the  constable,  standing 
over  his  slowly  recovering  prisoner,  *:  I  have  often 
seen  thy  ugrly  face  in  Shropshire,  and  knew  the  sort  of 
trade  thou  didst  carry  on,  though  mayhap  thou  knew- 
est  naught  of  me.  I  heard  thee  ask  Dick  Forster 
here,  them  questions  at  the  inn !  I  saw  thy  face  go 
white  as  a  new-washed  shirt !  And  now,  to  be  short, 
having  thus  quietly  taken  thee,  we  will  as  quietly  keep 
thee  !  Isaacs,  an  thou  art  for  leaving  America  ah 
do  thou  harken  to  me,  and  tell  me  where  Bill  Fowler 
is,  or  we'll  hang  thy  great  carcass  on  the  first  tree  we 
come  to  ;  which  is  the  English  way  of  doing  things  in 
America." 

•*  Where  is  your  warrant  for  all  this  V  growled 
Isaacs.  '"Here!"  said  the*  Englishman,  taking  a  pis- 
tol out  of  his  coat  pocket :  M  sure  this  will  be  enough 
for  thee  !  Isaacs,  we  be  charged  to  bring  home  thee 
and  Sir  William  Fowler  Gwynae,  by  fair  means  or 
foul,  and  we  will,  Isaacs  V 

u  Well — let  me  know  one  thing.  If  I  should  show 
you  where   he  is,  safe  and  sound — will  you  release 


202  the  wagoner. 

met"  There  was  a  pause.  "No — I  will  be  plain 
and  true  with  thee  like  a  man.  We  will  not  let  thee 
go  ;  we  will  have  thee  back  to  England,  dead  or  alive." 

"Well— if  I  show  him  to  you — and  we  both  reach 
England — what  will  be  done  with  me,  think  you? — 
hanging?"  "Why — no;  I  doubt  whether  thou  art 
worthy  of  that.  Thou  wilt,  perchance,  be  put  into  the 
stocks,  morning,  noon,  and  night,  for  three  years  ;  and 
then  publicly  whipped  ;  and  then  be  kicked  out  of 
Old  England,  and  sent  to  a  somewhat  different  place  from 
this — and  when  thou  art  there,  how  soon  thou  gettest 
shot,  or  hanged,  matters  not."  Every  one  laughed  at 
the  eloquence  of  the  constable  but  Isaacs. 

"  What — will  it  not  make  in  my  favour  to  tell  you 
where  he  is,  gentlemen  ?"  said  the  crestfallen  Isaacs, 
quite  cowered  before  the  plain-spoken,  resolute,  athletic 
Englishman.  "  To  be  sure  it  will !  An  thou  dost 
not,  thou  shall  not  live  to  get  hanged  in  England,  for  I 
will  knock  out  thy  brains  here  !"  Isaacs  seemed  re- 
flecting a  while. 

11  Well,"  said  he,  at  length,  "  I  see  how  it  is — and 
perhaps  'twere  better  to  tell  all  at  once  !  Look'ee, 
gentlemen ! — I'm  an  injured  man."  There  was  a 
laugh.  "  I've  done  all  in  my  power  to  release  Fowler, 
and  get  him  back  to  England — but  could  not  compass 
it.  I  have  used  him  handsomely,  and  given  him 
almost  all  the  moneys  that  were  sent  me  from  Eng- 
land." "  Come,  then — he'll  be  better  able  to  tell  us 
that  himself,"  said  the  constable,  urging  his  prisoner, 
and  helping  him  on  horseback  ;  "  thou  must  mind  say 
all  that  before  my  lord  the  judge  in  England,  who  will 
have  to  sentence  thee.  I  am  a  plain  man,  and  don't 
see  the  use  on't !     Now  lerfd  thou  on,  Master  Isaacs  !" 

Nearly  bursting  with  fury,  Isaacs,  his  horse's  bridle 
held  by  the  constable,  directed  the  party  in  what  di- 
rection to  proceed  ;  and  in  about  two  hours  time  the 
cavalcade  entered  the  quiet  farmyard  of  Fowler  and 
Isaacs — and  one  of  the  party  knocked  at  the  house- 


THE    WAGONER.  203 

door.  It  was  about  twelve  o'clock,  and  Fowler  was 
greatly  alarmed,  thinking  himself  beset  by  banditti. 

M  Do  but  come  down  to  us,"  said  Dick  Forster,  one 
of  the  party,  thoroughly  shaken  into  his  sober  senses, 
before  setting  out  on  the  expedition,  by  his  angry  com- 
panion. "  Do  but  come  down  to  us,  and  we  will  tell 
you  the  greatest  piece  of  news  you  ever  heard.  Come  ! 
—  come,  an  it  be  with  a  cocked  pistol  in  each  hand, 
and  under  both  arms  !  Why,  man,  1  am  loving  Richard 
Forster  from  England!  And  here  be  never  so  many 
friends  come  with  me,  to  bear  me  company  to  you  !" 
Fowler  nearly  leaped  out  of  the  window  from  which 
he  had  been  reconnoitring  the  party  in  the  yard.  In  a 
trice  he  was  down  stairs,  in  the  midst  of  them,  with 
his  cap  and  night  shirt;  and  singling  out  Forster,  who 
rushed  forward  to  meet  him,  clasped  him  in  his  arms, 
laughing  and  crying  by  turns. 

••  Whv,  dearest  Dick,  what  art  thou  come  here  for? 
Who  be  all  these  ?"  All  bowed  and  removed  their  hats, 
and  their  eloquent  spokesman  proceeded — "  We  be 
come  for  to  tell  you  of  your  rights,  and  riches,  and 
honour,  and  titles,  and  our  loves.  You  be  no  longer 
Bill  Fowler,  but  Sir  William  Fowler  Gwynne,  a  baro- 
net of  Gwynne  Hall,  Shropshire,  with  a  hundred  thou- 
sand pounds  a  year  besides  !  An't  he,  gentlemen,  eh  V 
— turning  round  with  a  confident  air  to  his  bowing 
companions. 

"  Sir  William  —  Sir  William  —  what  ? "  inquired 
Fowler,  standing  stupified  among  them.  "  Ay,  ay, 
Bill — I  mean  Sir  Bill— that  is.  Sir  William,"  stam- 
mered Dick  Forster — "  you  be  really  a  very  great 
man,  and  here's  one  behind  us  will  tell  thee  so,  be- 
sides '."  And  stepping  aside,  poor  Leroux,  with  his 
hands  tied  behind  him,  and  in  the  grasp  of  the  gigantic 
constable,  stood  forth  to  view.  Fowler  stared  at  him, 
breathlessly. 

"  Isaacs!"  said  Forster,  "  I  mean,  Le — Le — what's 
it? — isn't  all  this  true?  Isn't  Bill  Fowler  that  was,  a 
baronet  now,  by  the  name  of  Sir  William  Fowler?" 


204  THE    WAGONER. 

"  Ay,  I  suppose  so !"  grumbled  Isaacs,  ashamed  to 
look  his  ci-devant  captive  in  the  face. 

"  What !  is  it  all  true !"  said  Fowler,  approaching 
him,  with  a  wondering  air.  "  Is  it  no  dream  1 — no 
mockery  ?"  "  You  are  Sir  William  Gwynne  !"  replied 
Isaacs,  sullenly. 

**  And  why  are  you  tied  in  this  way,  eh  ?"  pursued 
Fowler,  elevating  his  hands  in  astonishment.  "  Be- 
cause he's  a  rogue  as  you  are  a  baronet !"  replied  Dick 
Forster,  promptly. 

Fowler  still  looked  bewildered.  "  Gentlemen,"  said 
he,  suddenly,  "  I  can't  make  it  out ;  but  I  shall  know 
better  what  to  think,  when  I've  slept  upon  it !  But — ■■ 
if  I'm  really  a  baronet — why,  I'll  make  you  all  drink 
this  night  with  the  greatest  man  you  ever  drank  with 
before  !  I  will  empty  all  my  ale  casks  for  you,  and 
you  can  drink  them.  Come  in,  gentlemen—come  in, 
I  say !" 

The  baronet  was  obeyed  ;  and  in  a  short  time  was 
sitting  in  his  parlour,  with  a  new-lighted  fire,  surrounded 
by  his  English  friends,  and  with  a  fresh-tapped  cask 
of  ale  upon  the  table,  which  supplied  such  excitement 
to  them  all,  as  found  vent  in  songs  that  might  have  been 
heard  a  mile  off,  and  were  heard  with  peculiar  satis- 
faction by  Isaacs,  who,  with  his  legs  tied  together  and 
his  arms  pinioned,  lay  in  the  room  overhead.  It  need 
not  occasion  surprise  to  hear  that  the  rising  sun  beheld 
the  newly  made  baronet,  and  his  jolly  friends,  lying 
huddled  together  on  the  parlour  floor,  in  prostrate  adora- 
tion  before  the  shrine  of  Bacchus.  It  was  arranged 
that  they  were  all  to  set  off  for  England  without  the 
delay  or  a  day.  Sir  William  Fowler  was  not  long  in 
making  his  preparations ;  but  one  of  the  expected 
guests  did  not  evince  such  alacrity  for  the  voyage  as 
his  companions.  It  was  Isaacs  ;  who  took  the  oppor- 
tunity, in  some  inexplicable  way,  of  making  his  escape. 
When  his  mortified  captors  came,  hardly  sobered,  into 
the  room  where  they  had  left  him,  lo  !  their  man  was 


THE   WAGONER.  205 

gone  !     All  search  proved  useless  ;  no  traces  of  him 
were  ever  discovered. 

Let  us  travel  faster  to  England  than  Sir  William  and 
his  attendants,  and  view  the  aspect  of  matters  awaiting 
his  arrival. 

Dr.  Ebury  lost  no  time,  as  he  was,  in  proceeding  up 
to  London,  and  laying  before  the  secretary  of  state  the 
shocking  confession  he  had  received,  thereby  explain- 
ing the  sudden  and  mysterious  abduction  of  Fowler. 
The  villanous  plot  began  to  unravel  itself;  but,  as  an 
affair  of  such  magnitude,  and  criminating  a  man  of  the 
rank  and  fortune  of  Sir  William  Gwynne,  the  secre- 
tary of  state  enjoined  the  utmost  deliberation  and  cir- 
cumspection. The  moment,  however,  Oxleigh's  sui- 
cide was  communicated  to  him,  he  felt  warranted,  at 
the  instance  of  Mr.  Parkhurst,  the  solicitor  accompany- 
ing Dr.  Ebury,  in  sending  a  commission  of  four  per- 
sons to  America  ;  two  of  them  constables  from  the 
neighbourhood,  and  acquainted  with  the  person  of  Fow- 
ler, to  bring  back  the  kidnapped  heir  to  the  titles  and 
estates  of  Gwynne.  In  the  mean  time,  Mr.  Parkhurst 
hurried  down  .to  Shropshire  with  a  warrant  to  arrest 
Oxleigh,  and  reached  his  house,  with  officers,  during 
the  time  that  a  coroner's  inquest  was  sitting  on  the 
body.  He  then  proceeded  to  Gwynne  Hall ;  but  found 
Sir  William  in  too  dangerous  circumstances  to  be 
moved.  Very  heavy  bail  was  taken  for  him,  and  an 
officer  besides  left  in  the  house.  A  most  rigorous  in- 
vestigation into  the  whole  affair  was  set  on  foot  by  Mr* 
Parkhurst  and  Dr.  Ebury.  The  claims  of  the  absent 
Fowler  were  thoroughly  sifted,  and  found  to  be  irre- 
fragable. Morning,  noon,  and  night,  did  Mr.  Parkhurst 
devote  cheerfully  to  the  laborious  inquiry ;  writing  with 
his  own  hands  hundreds  of  folios.  When,  at  length, 
he  had  collected  all  his  materials,  and,  as  the  phrase 
is,  "  licked  them  a  little  into  shape,"  he  set  off  with 
them  for  London,  to  secure  the  opinion  and  advice  of 
the  celebrated  attorney  general.  Great  interest  was 
excited  about  the  cause,  even  in  the  metropolis ;  and 

18 


20$  THE    WAGONER. 

all  parties  waited  with  anxiety  for  the  decision  of  the 
attorney  general — as  if  his  fiat  had  been  that  of  the 
judges. 

The  day  appointed  by  the  attorney  general  for  de- 
livering his  opinion  on  the  voluminous  case  laid  before 
him,  happened,  singularly  enough,  to  be  that  on  which 
the  new  baronet  and  his  friends  arrived  in  London, 
from  America.  Mr.  Parkhurst  soon  received  intelli- 
gence of  the  event ;  and  procured  the  attendance  of 
Sir  William,  with  himself,  Dr.  Ebury,  and  another,  at 
the  attorney  general's  chambers  in  the  Temple,  where 
he  had  intimated  his  intention  of  reading  to  them  and 
explaining  his  opinion. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  he, "  I  do  not  think  I  ever  devoted 
such  anxious  care  to  a  case  as  this,  i  have  gone 
nearly  a  dozen  times  over  this  pile  of  papers,  and  had, 
all  the  while,  the  assistance  of  my  eminent  brother, 
the  solicitor  general.  We  completely  agree  in  one 
opinion  ;  which  is,  that  the  title  of  Sir  William  Gwynne 
cannot  be  disturbed."  Mr.  Parkhurst  almost  sank 
into  the  floor.  "  There  are  two  reasons  for  this,"  pro- 
ceeded the  attorney  general,  calmly  ;  "  first,  the  statute 
of  limitations  came  into  operation  six  months  ago,  in 
Sir  William's  favour :  and  I  ne*ed  not  say,  that  when 
the  statute  once  begins  to  run,  nothing  can  stop  it.  But 
even  supposing  that  ground  to  be  doubtful,  as  it  may, 
possibly,  be  beat  into  a  questionable  shape,  there  is 
yet  a  fatal  obstacle  in  the  way  of  the  person  whose 
pretensions  you  have  so  zealously  and  ably  espoused ; 
Sir  William  Gwynne  is  the  right  heir  at  law." 
Mr.  Parkhurst  looked  aghast.  "  In  a  matter  of  such 
moment  as  this,  I  have  availed  myself  of  a  certain  in- 
formation, which  was  tendered  to  me  in  consideration 
of  my  office.  I  have  here,  and  shall  deliver  into  your 
hands,  a  document,  formerly  in  the  possession  of  the 
deceased  Mr.  Job  Oxleigh,  and  unquestionably  in  his 
handwriting,  stating,  with  proofs,  that  the  wife  of  the 
late  Mr.  William  Fowler  Gwynne,  the  alleged  mother 
of  the  person  now  present" — pointing  to  the  sci-disant 


THE  WAGONER.  207 

baronet — <{  died,  certainly  having  given  birth  to  a  son  ; 
but  that  sox  pied  within  a  week  of  his  christening. 
This  young  man,  who  has  always  hitherto  Borne  the 
name  of  William  Fowler, 'was  an  orphan  son  of  a  poor 
woman  that  died  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Mrs.  Fowler, 
who  took  her  child,  nursed  it,  gave  it  the  name  of  Wil- 
liam Fowler,  and  died,  leaving  it  about  two  years  of 
age.  The  whole  has  been  the  singularly  artful  con- 
trivance of  the  late  Mr.  Job  Oxleigh,  to  hold  Sir  Wil- 
liam G uynne  in  bondage,  and  extort  from  him  the 
estate  called  '  The  Sheaves,'  of  which  Mr.  Oxleigh 
was  possessed.  I  may  take  the  liberty  of  suggesting, 
that,  though  the  baronet  has  acted  cruelly  and  illegally, 
under  the  circumstances,  a  prosecution  against  him 
would  not  be  more  than  barely  sustained.  He  has 
suffered  greater  torture  for  the  last  nine  or  ten  years, 
than  the  law  can  now7  inflict  upon  him.  It  is  of  course, 
however,  for  you  and  others  to  consider  this,  which  I 
merely  offer  as  a  suggestion.  Sir,  I  beg  to  hand  you 
my  wrritten  opinion,  as  wrell  as  the  document  to  which 
I  have  alluded  ;  and  to  intimate  that  I  am  compelled  to 
withdraw,  being  summoned  to  attend  the  king." 

The  attorney  general  bowed,  and  withdrew  into 
another  room,  leaving  Mr.  Parkhurst,  and  indeed  all 
present,  completely  thunderstruck. 

"  What  !  Be  I  no  baronet,  then,  after  all  V*  in- 
quired Fowler,  wofully  chopfallen.  Mr.  Parkhurst 
gave  him  no  answer. 

"  W7ho  is  to  send  me  back  again  to  America  V 

These  were  puzzling  and  unwelcome  questions. 
How  the  poor  fellow  was  eventually  disposed  of,  I 
knowr  not ;  though,  it  is  said,  he  was  seen,  shortly 
after,  in  his  old  character  of  a  wagoner ;  and  his 
splendid  adventures  silenced  for  ever  the  claims  to  pop- 
ularity of  poor  Dick  Forster.  Mr.  Parkhurst  did  not 
continue  in  town  two  hours  after  the  attorney  general 
had  delivered  his  opinion ;  but  stepped  into  a  post- 
chaise  and  four,  and  hurried  down  into  Shropshire,  to 
release  Sir  William  Gwynne  from  all  restraint,   and 


208  THE    WAGONER. 

communicate  the  extraordinary  turn  which  circum- 
stances had  taken,  He  reached  Gwynne  Hall  in  time 
to  see  the  return  of  the  mournful  funeral  procession 
which  had  attended  Sir  William's  remains  to  the  vault 
of  his  ancestors.  The  griefworn,  broken-hearted  bar- 
onet— the  victim  of  villany  almost  unequalled  in  sys- 
tematic atrocity — had  expired  about  a  week  before, 
begging  he  might  be  buried  as  quickly  as  possible — as 
though  he  were  ashamed  for  his  remains  to  be  upon 
the  face  of  the  earth.  The  titles  and  estates  went  to 
a  remote  member  of  the  family. 


END    OF   THE    WAGONER, 


MONKWYND: 


LEGENDARY     FRAGMENT. 


Bast.  Your  sword  is  bright,  sir  :  put  it  up  again. 
Sal.     Not  till  I  sheath  it  in  a  murderer's  skin. 

King  John. 

The  soft  sunlight  streamed  sadly  through  many  a 
dim  and  gloomy  vista  of  Monkwynd  Forest,  towards 
the  close  of  a  sultry  afternoon,  in  the  autumn  of  1399. 
On  every  side,  beyond  the  eye's  ken,  stretched  vast 
sylvan  colonnades  of  amber-hued  trees,  here  and  there 
interrupted  by  a  gaunt  and  hoary  oak,  who  seemed 
struggling  to  maintain  his  patriarchal  supremacy  over 
his  leafy  brethren — and  irregular  clumps  of  towering 
elms.  Dimly  through  the  distance  was  occasionally 
seen  the  form  of  a  solitary  deer,  glancing  swiftly  among 
the  trees,  as  if  in  search  of  his  strayed  comrades. 
Solemn  and  unbroken  stillness  reigned  throughout  the 
gloomy  depths  of  Monkwynd.  Rich  masses  of  broken 
sunlight  fell  at  intervals  on  the  soft,  glistening  moss, 
which  looked  as  though  it  had  never  been  crushed  be- 
neath the  proud  footsteps  of  man.  The  sun  was  as  yet 
at  a  considerable  height  above  the  vast  outline  of  the 
Welsh  mountains,  which  bounded  the  horizon. 

A  slight  gloom  overcast  the  rich  and  tranquil  scenery ; 
and  the  aspect  of  the  sky  betokened  the  rapid  approach 
of  a  thunder  storm.  The  sun,  with  his  regal  train, 
presently  disappeared  behind  a  dense  phalanx  of  tow- 

IS* 


I 


210  .      '  MONKWYND. 

ering  clouds,  which  seemed  as  though  collecting  from 
all  parts  "  the  loud  artillery  of  heaven."  A  few  mo- 
ments ensued,  of  that  intense  and  sultry  stillness  which 
usually  precedes  a  storm.  Nature  seemed  to  sink  with 
fearful  apprehension  of  what  might  follow.  At  last,  a 
few  large  drops  of  rain  were  heard  pattering  slowly 
through  the  motionless  branches  ;  they  were  soon  fol- 
lowed by  an  astounding  peal  of  thunder,  which  seemed 
to  shake  the  whole  forest,  as  its  long  and  deep  re- 
verberations died  away  among  the  distant  groves. 
Several  awfully  vivid  sheets  of  lightning  shed  over  the 
scenery  a  transient  ghastly  light ;  and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments the  rain  poured  down  in  torrents.  There  was 
something  freshening,  in  hearing  its  ceaseless  clatter 
among  the  hurtling  leaves  and  branches,  and  viewing 
it  streaming  on  the  emerald  grass  and  moss  beneath. 

On  a  slightly  elevated  mound  of  grass,  at  some  dis- 
tance from  the  surrounding  trees,  in  the  very  heart  of 
the  forest,  apparently  unconcerned  amid  the  torrents  of 
rain,  the  reverberating  thunder  claps,  and  the  livid,  in- 
cessant flash  of  lightning,  stood  the  tall  figure  of  a 
stranger.  His  arms,  folded  on  his  breast,  drew  tightly 
around  him  the  folds  of  a  long  dark  cloak ;  it  doubled 
over  his  head  in  the  shape  of  a  hood,  which,  in  the 
present  instance,  was  thrown  rather  aside.  It  was  the 
monkish  costume.  His  pale,  stern,  and  forbidding 
countenance,  and  restless  vulture  eye,  conveyed  to  the 
spectator  the  idea  that  he  contemplated  a  monument  of 
ruined  ambition.  He  was  gazing  on  the  sky  ;  and  the 
fitful  lightning  shed  over  his  features  a  most  wild  and 
unearthly  expression.  His  lips  were  compressed  sul- 
lenly together ;  and  his  broad  forehead,  partially  shaded 
with  black  hair,  was  knotted  with  a  gloomy  air  of  in- 
tense thought  and  disquietude. 

"  Ay  !"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  deep  tone,  after  witness- 
ing a  terrific  flash  of  lightning,  "  an  I  envy  not  that 
cloud,  may  Satan  asshrive  me  this  night !  It  hath  cast 
forth  from  its  dark  chambers  a  troublesome  guest,  and 
now  flitteth  on  its  journey  easily.     Holy  St.  Botolph ! 


MONKWYND.  211 

would  1  were   able  to  cast  forth  the  lightning  which 
scorcheth  me  secretly — ay,  blighteth  every  hour  of  my 
accursed    life !     And    that   thunder — why   the    earth 
seemed  to  leap  with  horror  at  the  hearing  on't — yet  it 
shaketh  not  the  soul  o'  him  that  standeth  thereon  !     I 
weeten*  that  these  fresh   rain  drops  would   cool  my 
burning   brow — but    alack !    they    roll    off  hot — hot ! 
Marry  !  that  was  a  doughty  feat,  in  sooth  !"  said  he,  as 
the    lightning  descended  on  a  giant  oak,  and  rent  it 
asunder  with  a  loud  crash.     "  That  same  lightning 
hath  taught  me  a  lesson.     It  careered  over  the  sky  till 
it  had  collected  all  its  might — and  then  it  flung  down 
at  once  the  whole  of  its  fiery  vengeance  ;  and  see  how 
it  hath  blasted  the  proud  old  king  o'  Monkwynd  !     In 
like  manner  I  have  wandered  from  far,  over  lonesome 
hill  and  valley,  and  crossed  the  troublous  seas — and 
now  will  I  do  in  like  manner,  by  the  mass  !"     As  he 
spoke  these  last  words  with  subdued  eager  bitterness, 
he  reached  over  his  hand  to  his  left  side,  as  though  he 
felt  something  beneath  his  cloak.     A  wild  smile  passed 
over  his  face.     "  An't  shall  piease  thy  reverence,"  ex- 
claimed a  husky  voice,  thou  hadst  better  turn  within, 
and  abide  under  cover,  till  the  rain  be  overpast."     The 
voice  issued  from  the  door  of  a  small  cave,  which  con- 
veniently opened  between  the  trunks  of  two  trees,  at 
about   ten  paces  distance  from  the   mound  on  which 
stood  the  moody  stranger.     The  speaker  was  a  jolly 
obese  little  friar,  with  a  smooth-shaven  crown,  and  ver- 
milion tinted  nose.     The  stranger  stalked  slowly  to  the 
cave,  and  stood   leaning  against  one  of  the  elm  trees. 
He  glared  silently  on  the  lightning,  as  it  flashed  inces- 
santly afar  off*. 

"  Sancta  Maria !  what  a  dreary  even  is  this  !"  quoth 
Father  Gootle,  fingering  his  dusky  beads.  il  Yon 
lightning  looketh "  like  fiery  snakes  i'  the  sky :  an't 
please  ye,  sir  serpents,  I  wot  ye  would  keep  far  from 

*  In  several  parts  of  the  ensuing  narrative  I  have  adopted  the  col- 
loquial phrases  of  the  period  at  which  our  story  commences. 


212  MONKWYND. 

this  our  comfortable  resting-place  !  Dost  thou  dread 
the  lightning,  holy  father  f 

"  I  prithee  peace,  sirrah :  trouble  me  not  with  thy 
malapert  questions.  Rather  sit  thee  down  within  there, 
and  go  to  sleep,"  replied  the  monk,  sternly. 

"  If  it  please  thy  reverence,  I  have  but  aroused  a 
little  while  from  my  nap — and  even  then  an  unman- 
nerly peal  o'  thunder  awoke  me.  But  I  can  tell  thee  o' 
something  that  will  comfort  thy  soul :  ay,  in  sooth,  it 
will  comfort  thy  soul." 

"  Out  with  it,  then  !"  said  the  monk,  looking  negli- 
gently over  his  shoulder. 

*'  Body  and  soul  be  sworn  brothers — charissimifra- 
trcs,  as  saith  one  of  the  fathers,  if  it  please  thy  rever- 
ence to  recollect.  Sith  it  so  stand,  it  follows  that  they 
have  all  things  in  common.  When  one  is  griped,  and 
pinched,  why  so  is  the  other,  as  it  were.  Thy  mind 
is  now  disquieted,  after  a  certain  sort ;  and  by  close 
examination  thereof,  according  to  the  command  of  the 
holy  church — but  thou  rememberest  what  Father  Am- 
brose saith —  i 

'  Sint  pura  cordis  intima 
Absistat  et  vecordia' — 

I  found  that  it  was  not  disquieted  because  of  aught  evil 
in  itself,  (blessed  be  the  mother  of  God  !)  but  purely 
because  the  body  is  wanting  in  due  and  fitting  nourish- 
ment :  the  stomach — the  stomach — hem,  hem." 

"  Out  on  thy  drivelling !     What  wouldst  thou  say  to 


me 


"  Marry,  that  I  have  an  excellent  mutton  pasty 
within  here,  which  a  certain  pious  damsel  gave  me 
this  morning  for  absolution  from  an  unspeakable  thing. 
Doubtless  thout  wilt  fall  to,  and  partake  thereof." 

44  Thou  fat  old  dotard  !"  exclaimed  the  monk,  turning 
his  back  on  him  angrily. 

"  Nevertheless,  I  feel  a  certain  craving  after  food, 
which  must  be  satisfied.  Doubtless  when  the  savoury 
smell  of  my  pasty  ascendeth  to  thy  nostrils,  thou  wilt 


MONKWYND.  213 

be  of  other  mind  than  thou  art  now,  for  thou  hast  trav- 
elled far  to-day,"  replied  the  good  friar ;  and  drawing 
a  small  knife  from  his  vest,  which  seemed  always  ready 
on  such  occasions,  he  cut  out  a  large  piece,  which  he 
immediately  began  to  eat,  with  great  zest,  and  in  si- 
lence. For  some  moments  the  monk  stood  gazing  on 
the  storm,  which  yet  raged  with  unabated  violence  ; 
but  at  last,  it  seemed  that  the  prediction  of  his  com- 
panion was  verified,  for  he  turned  slowly  round  and 
seated  himself  within  the  cavern. 

"  An  thou  likest,  thou  mayst  portion  mc  out  a  morsel, 
for  I  wax  something  faint  with  travelling,  and  a  long 
fast.  I  have  that  to  do  which  doth  not  admit  of  weak- 
ness— else  I  had  vowed  not  to  eat  till — "  He  broke 
off  suddenly,  and  a  gloomy  pause  ensued. 

"  Surely  the  damsel  from  wThose  fair  hands  did  come 
this  pasty,  is  blessed  with  excellent  skill  in  the  fash- 
ioning of  pasties,"  said  the  friar,  handing  a  slice  to  the 
monk,  who  ate  a  few  mouthfuls  in  silence.  At  length 
he  flung  down  the  remainder,  with  violence. 

"  Sancta  Maria  !  doth  it  not  suit  thy  palate  ?  Is  it 
seasoned  too  highly  ?"  inquired  the  astonished  friar. 
"  Thou  couldst  not  have  done  more,  an  it  had  been 
poisoned — which  our  blessed  Lady  forbid,  for  I  have 
eaten  a  reasonable  quantity !"  he  continued,  passing 
his  hands  over  his  protuberant  paunch,  and  looking 
rather  alarmed.  The  monk,  evidently  striving  to  con- 
ceal from  his  companion  his  great  perturbation,  stam- 
mered confusedly,  as  a  reason  for  his  strange  conduct, 

"  Carnis  terat  superbia 
Potus  cibique  parcitas. 

"  Dost  not  thou  know  what  that  meaneth,  thou  that  art 
gorging  like  a  hog  beneath  an  oak  tree  ?  I  will  taste 
no  more  o'  thy  vile  dainties." 

He  seemed  fearfully  agitated.  He  quivered  from 
head  to  foot :  and  glared  so  wildly  around  him  that  the 
friar,  terrified  by  his  vehemence,  and  apprehending 
that  a  long  fast  had  somewhat  deranged  hira,  pulled  out 


0 


214  MONKWYND. 

a  small  flask  of  wine,  and  offered  it  to  him :  he  drained 
it  off  at  a  draught. 

-  "  Was  that  blood  thou  gavest  me  ?"  inquired  the 
monk,  in  a  hollow  tone,  fixing  an  appalling  stare  on  the 
affrighted  friar. 

"  Blood  ?— blood  ?  Holy  St.  Becket !  Why  should 
I  give  thee  blood  ?  Thou  ravest !  Thou  art  certainly 
ill !  Look  at  this  holy  wood,  father,  and  be  blessed !" 
and  he  held  before  him  a  small  crucifix. 

M  Ha  !"  exclaimed  the  monk,  with  a  long  shuddering 
gasp,  gazing  on  the  crucifix  with  a  bursting  eye.  He 
suddenly  snatched  it  from  the  trembling  grasp  of  the 
friar,  and  dashed  it  into  fragments  upon  the  stone  floor. 

"  Sancta — sanctissima  Maria  !  Henceforth  a  curse 
clingeth  to  thee  for  ever!"  screamed  the  astonished 
friar,  as  the  monk  darted  from  the  cavern,  and  stag- 
gered to  the  mound  where  he  had  previously  stood. 
He  shook  himself  violently,  as  though  he  had  been 
flinging  off  the  coils  of  a  serpent,  pressed  his  hands  to 
his  forehead,  and  gazed  upward  with  an  eye  quiver- 
ing with  agony  and  despair.  He  turned  round  with 
sudden  calmness.  He  seemed  with  a  gigantic  effort 
to  have  allayed  his  terrible  excitement.  He  walked 
slowly  to  the  cave,  at  the  entrance  of  which  stood  the 
pale  and  agitated  friar,  rapidly  counting  his  heads. 

.  "  Go  thou  within,  Father  Gootle  ;  I  have  somewhat 
for  thy  ear." 

"  How  shall  I  sit  near  one  who  hath  broken  and 
despised  the  blessed  cross!"  inquired  the  trembling 
friar.  A  look  from  the  monk  silenced  his  scruples, 
and  he  obeyed.  The  monk  seated  himself  opposite  to 
him. 

"  Dost  thou  remember,"  he  resumed,  solemnly,  lay- 
ing his  cold  hands  on  those  of  the  friar ;  "  dost  thou 
remember  San  Marco  ?" 

The  shuddering  friar  made  no  reply. 

"  I  see  thou  dost,"  continued  the  monk,  gloomily ; 
"  but  why  art  thou  so  startled  ?  Dost  thou  remember 
in  the  inner  court  of  the  abbey,  in  the  still  of  the  eve- 


MONKWYND.  215 

ning,  what  words  they  were  which  I  spoke  to  thee  ? 
What  I  said  about  England—about  Cheshire?" 

"  Holy  father,  I  pray  thee,  take  off  from  me  thy 
burning  eye  !  Thy  fiendish  stare  hath  maddened  me. 
Help;  I  faint!" 

"  Weak  fool !"  exclaimed  the  monk,  as  he  supported 
him  till  he  recovered. 

M  Father  Gootle  !  I  ask  thee,  dost  thou  remember  the 
word  which  I  whispered  in  thine  ear,  when  the  bell 
rung  to  vespers  V 

"  I  do !  I  do  !"  replied  the  friar,  gasping  with  terror. 

"  That  word  hath  brought  me  from  Italy  to  England, 
although  thou  thoughtst  I  was  intrusted  on  an  errand 
of  state  to  Cardinal  Superbe.  That  word  hath  been 
my  support  amid  troubles  and  sorrows  unutterable. 
That  word  hath  been  to  me  for  breath  and  for  food. 
That  word  hath  made  me  to  laugh  at  the  grave." 

"  And  that  word  will  be  thy  passport  to  hell !"  re- 
plied the  friar,  vehemently. 

"  Hell  .'"  ejaculated  the  monk,  with  a  bitter  smile. 
"  Now,  father,  do  thou  mark  me,  and  mind  me.  I  go 
to  do  a  deed,  which  neither  thou  nor  any  other  man 
must  see.  Stay  thou  within  this  cavern  until  I  return, 
or  thy  blood  be  on  thine  own  head.  An  thou  stirrest 
bevond  these  two  trees  till  I  return — by  the  cross 
which  I  brake,  but  this  is  thy  grave  !"  said  the  monk, 
in  a  voice  of  thunder. 

The  friar  fell  on  his  knees,  and  clasped  his  hands  in 
speechless  agony. 

"What  meanest  thou?  What  wouldst  thou?"  in* 
quired  the  monk,  sternly. 

"  By  thy  hopes  of  heaven,,  do  not  this  dark  and 
bloody  deed  !" 

"Thoumayst  cease  thine  entreaties,  father.  Can 
the  stamp  of  a  foot  crumble  yon  mountains  into  dust  ? 
Then  may  thine  entreaties  melt  the  rock  of  my  reso- 
lution. I  tell  thee  I  shall  have  my  revenge,  an  there 
be  truth  in  heaven  or  in  hell.     Once  again  I  warn  thee. 


216  MONKWYND. 

if  thou  leavest  till  I  return,  I  will  slay  thy  body,  and 
curse  thy  soul  for  ever,  an  it  were  in  my  power." 

With  these  words  he  left  the  cave,  and  Father  Gootle 
more  dead  than  alive.  He  strode  rapidly  to  the  mound 
he  had  previously  occupied.  The  armies  of  the  storm 
had  furled  their  flags,  and  left  the  sky  to  the  brief  but 
serene  dominion  of  the  setting  sun.  Purple-tinged 
clouds  floated  around  him  in  dim  pomp  and  shadowy 
magnificence.  The  freshly  laved  trees  glowed  in  his 
soft  lustre  ;  and  the  winds  swept  through  their  foliage, 
as  though  they  chanted  the  faint  and  mournful  requiem 
of  the  departing  day.  The  scene  was  delightfully 
tranquil ;  but  not  so  he  whose  eye  dilated  upon  it  with 
sullen  indifference. 

The  monk  frequently  cast  his  eye  towards  a  grove 
of  silvery  sycamores,  round  which  wound  a  circuitous 
pathway  leading  to  Wrexham,  as  though  anxiously 
waiting  the  approach  of  an  expected  passenger.  He 
often  muttered  to  himself,  "  When  will  he  come  ?  What 
an,  after  all,  I  am  misled?  But,  lo  !  there  he  cometh  1 
ay,  he  cometh !  Why  doth  my  blood  stand  still,  and 
why  mine  eyes  grow  dim?  What  meaneth  this  sick- 
ness ?  this  deadly  faintness  at  the  heart  ?  Hold  !  an 
it  fail  me  now,  so  shall  my  life  !" 

He  drew  his  cowl  over  his  face,  and  began  to  walk 
around,  in  a  thoughtful  mood,  so  that  he  might  be 
speedily  overtaken  by  the  horseman  who  followed.  It 
was  an  elderly  man  who  rode  on  a  large  white  horse. 
He  was  dressed  in  a  long  buff  tunic,  somewhat  the 
worse  for  wear,  with  a  broad  leather  band  buckled 
round  his  waist,  and  had  on  a  coarse  thrum  bonnet* 
Covetousness  and  rapacity  seemed  to  twinkle  in  his 
keen,  deep-set,  gray  eyes,  and  to  be  stamped  upon 
every  feature  of  his  countenance  ;  and  a  dirty-grayish, 
straggling  beard  attached  to  his  peaked  chin,  gave  a 
perfect  idea  of  a  miser.  He  rode^at  a  leisurely  pace, 
and  soon  overtook  the  monk,  who  walked  on  with  his 
chin  inclined  on  his  hand,  in  a  posture  of  deep  thought- 
fulness. 


MONKWYND.  217 

"  The  blessing  of  St.  Botolph  be  with  thee,  good 
stranger  ;  hast  thou  alms  for  one  of  the  holy  church's 
poor  servants  ?"  inquired  the  monk,  in  a  stifled  voice. 

"  Good  even'  to  thee,  holy  priest :  but  syn  thou 
askest  alms,  let  me  tell  thee,  I  have  not  sufficient  for 
mine  own  wants." 

"  An  it  were  ever  so  little,  give  it,  I  prithee  :  wottest 
thou  not  of  the  widow's  mite  ?" 

"  I  tell  thee,"  replied  the  stranger,  peevishly,  "  I 
have  scarce  sufficient  for  mine  own  wants  ;  and  how, 
then,  can  I  minister  to  thine  ?" 

"  How  sayst  thou  so  ?  Report  babbleth  that  thou 
hast  an  indifferent  good  estate,  adjoining — is  it  not 
so  ?  Dacie  o1  Monkwynd  passeth  for  richer  than  any 
within  many  a  rood,  an  I  am  not  misled." 

"  Then  report  is  a  liar — an  thou  icilt  have  plain 
words.  Even  suppose  I  had  some  trifling  property  in 
tenements,  and  so  forth — thinkest  thou  I  am  not  suffi- 
ciently burdened  with  young  King  Richard's  extor- 
tion ?  Every  month  that  cometh  is  saddled  with  some 
new  exorbitant  tax.     Marry,  I  tell  thee,  I  am  poor." 

"  An  it  were  never  so  small  a  trifle,"  continued  the 
monk,  imploringly. 

"  Thou  shouldst  not,  because  thou  couldst  not  have 
it !"  replied  Davie,  angrily,  at  the  same  time  quicken- 
ing the  pace  of  his  horse.  But  the  monk  still  kept 
close  to  his  side. 

"  Leave  me,  leave  me,  thou  importunate  beggar  I 
Thou  dost  disgrace  thy  cloth  !"  said  Davie,  impatiently : 
had  he  seen  the  withering  scowl  with  which  the  monk 
regarded  him,  he  would  have  set  off  at  full  gallop ;  as 
it  was,  he  urged  his  horse  to  brisker  speed  than  before : 
but  the  monk,  with  long  and  rapid  strides,  still  kept 
even  with  him,  and,  seeing  Davie  inclined  to  set  off  at 
a  gallop,  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  bridle. 

M  Why — what  meanest  thou  ?  By'r  Lady,  wouldst 
thou  rob  me  !  Dost  know  that  the  greater  half  of  this 
forest  is  owned  by. me?"  said  Davie,  with  grea'  trep- 
idation. 

k  19 


218  MONKWYND. 

"  An  that  be  so,  how  canst  thou  be  so  poor  as  to  be 
unable  to  give  me  a  mark  or  two  ?  I  pray  thee  give 
me  alms,  in  the  name  of  the  Blessed  Virgin !" 

"  I  will  see  thee  hanged  first,  priest  as  thou  art !" 
vociferated  Davie,  losing  all  patience. 

"  Then  mark  me !"  said  the  monk,  in  a  slow  and 
solemn  voice,  "  I  will  give  thee  a  gift !" 

11  Ay,  i'fait  ? — ay?"  inquired  Davie,  eagerly;  "money 
or  goods  ?  Money  or  goods  ?  Stay — perchance  thou 
meanest  thy  blessing?  If  so,  keep  it  to,  thyself:  a 
monkish  blessing  I  value  not  half  a  sterling." 

"  Davie,  wouldst  thou  know  what  my  gift  meaneth  ?" 
asked  the  monk,  impressively.  "  It  is  this !  Gaze 
till  thine  eyes  be  blighted  !"  and  he  drew  from  beneath 
his  cloak  a  keen,  long,  and  glittering  knife,  spotted 
with  blood. 

"  Holy  Mary !  Dost  thou  mean  to  murder  an  old 
man  ?"  stammered  Davie,  while  he  strove,  but  ineffec- 
tually, to  urge  his  horse  to  a  more  rapid  pace. 

'*  Murder  thee  !  St.  Dunstan  forbid !  Dost  thou 
think  a  monk  a  murderer  ?  Take  thou  this  blade,  and 
examine  it  well.  I  warrant  thee  thou  shalt,  by-and-by, 
discover  in  it  something  strange  and  wondrous,"  re* 
plied  the  monk,  as  he  extended  the  knife  to  his  com- 
panion. 

"  By  the  bones  o'  Saint  Becket,  I  will  not  touch  it ! 
Thou  art  a  fiend,  and  no  man,"  replied  Davie.    . 

"  Take  it,  or  rue  it !"  thundered  the  monk.  Davie 
took  it  with  a  trembling  hand.  '*  And  what  am  I  to  do 
with  it?"  he  inquired,  faintly. 

"  Mark  it  well,  and  give  it  me  again/' 

Davie  viewed  it  with  a  dim  and  sickening  eye,  and 
returned  it  in  silence  to  his  companion,  who  clutched 
it  with  fierce  eagerness,  and  replaced,  it  beneath  his 
cloak. 

"Dost  thou  remember  it,  Davie?  Dost  thou  re- 
member it  ?" 

"  No !"  replied  Davie,  casting  a  wild  and  fearful 


MOXKWYND.  219 

glance  on  his  companion,  who  drew  his  cowl  closer 
over  his  face.     A  long  pause  ensued. 

"And  so  thou  art  poor,  art  thou?"  inquired  the 
monk,  with  feigned  calmness. 

"Thou  speakest  truly,  reverend  father." 
"  How  long  hast  thou  lived  in  these  parts  ?" 
"  I  have  dwelt  here  syn  my  youth,"  replied  Davie, 
with  trembling  submissiveness. 

"  Hadst  thou  ever  a  brother  ?"*  inquired  the  monk, 
abruptly,  in  a  voice  which  thrilled  to  the  very  marrow 
of  his  shuddering  auditor. 

"  Ay !"  he  replied,  at  the  same  time  grasping  the 
pommel  of  his  saddle,  as  if  he  with  difficulty  preserved 
his  seat. 

"  Why  dost  thou  tremble,  and  turn  so  white  in  thy 
face,  Davie  V  inquired  the  monk,  with  a  fierce  smile. 
"  A  passing  fit  of  sickness,  such  as  I  often  have. 
Would  that  Gideon  Drench,  the  leech,  were  here  :  I 
lack  his  assistance.  I  pray  thy  reverence  to  remember, 
that  I  am  a  weak  and  year-stricken  man." 

"  Doubtless  it  is  so  ;  but — thy  brother  ?"  continued 
the  monk,  with  cold  solemnity  ;  "  is  he  alive  now  V 
Davie  was  silent. 

"  I  ask  thee,  Davie — is  thy  brother  alive  V  repeated 
the  monk. 

M  With  great  grief  of  heart,  I  must  tell  thee,  he  is 
dead.      God's    peace  be  with  his   soul !"  stammered 
Davie,  as  if  his  words  choked  him. 
"  When  did  he  die,  Davie  ?" 

"  It  is  now  a  matter  of  ten  years,  so  please  thy 
reverence." 

"  I  prithee,  did  he  die  at  home — in  his  father's 
house  f 

"  Alack,  no  !  He  died  at  Wat  Tyler's  rebellion. 
He  was  slain  by  a  knight,  in  Smithfield.  I  grieve  to 
say  he  was  a  traitor." 

A  long  pause  ensued,  which  neither  seemed  inclined 
to  break. 

k2 


220  MONKWYND. 

*  Where  didst  thou  say  he  died?"  inquired  the  monk, 
abruptly. 

"  Peace  be  with  him !  He  followed  the  Duke  o' 
Hereford  to  Lithuania,  and  was  left  dead  on  the  field  of 
battle.  I  had  like  to  have  gone  beside  myself  with 
sorrow  for  him — for  I  was  the  only  one  of  the  family 
that  loved  him." 

"  I  thought  thou  saidst  he  was  a  rebel,  and  died  in 
Wat  Tyler's  insurrection,  in  Smithfield?"  said  the 
monk,  slowly,  fixing  a  keen  and  startling  glance  on 
Davie,  who  made  no  other  reply  than  by  gasping, 
"Heaven  pity  me — I  grow  distracted  !" 

"  Hadst  thou  other  brothers  than  he,  Davie  ?" 

"  No,  he  was  the  elder  and  only  one." 

The  monk  drew  his  cowl  closer  over  his  face,  and 
said,  in  a.  voice  which  seemed  to  rise  from  the  depths 
of  the  grave,  "  Davie,  thou  didst  murder  thy  brother !" 

The  reins  fell  from  Davie's  hands,  and  he  fixed  on 
the  shrouded  face  of  his  companion  a  cold,  unmeaning 
stare,  while  the  monk  continued,  in  the  same  sepul- 
chral tone — 

"  Davie,  dost  thou  remember  the  Elder  Tower  ?  Dost 
thou  remember  who  sat  in  it  at  midnight,  when  still- 
ness was  upon  the  earth  ?  Dost  thou  remember  that 
thy  brother  received  from  thine  hands  a  cup  of  sack — 
drank  it — and  presently  fell  asleep?  Dost  thou  re- 
member that  thou  didst  take  from  thy  tunic  a  knife  ? 
Dost  thou  remember  baring  the  cloak  from  thy  brother's 
bosom  ?  Dost  thou  remember  the  hot  blood  that 
gushed  over  thy  clasped  hands  ?  Dost  thou  remember 
the  hooting  of  an  owl,  who  settled  opposite  to  thee,  on 
a  hazel  tree,  and  sang  thee  a  death  song  on  thy  deed  ? 
Dost  thou  remember  the  broad  eye  of  the  moon  that 
wellnigh  froze  thee  into  stone,  as  thou  lookedst  on  it  ? 
Dost  thou  remember  hearing  a  wild  shriek — that  a 
maiden  started  from  the  bower,  where  she  had  been 
sleeping,  close  by,  and  was  awaked  by  the  owl — that 
thou  wast  following  her,  with  thy  red  knife  in  thine 
hand,  when  thy  feet  failed  thee  on  the  ground  slippery 


MONKWYND.  221 

with  blood  ?  Ha !  dost  thou  remember  that  ghastly- 
night  ?  Thou  didst  not  see  the  blue  hell  fire  which 
flickered  around  the  shrubs  and  bushes  by  thee !  Da- 
vie !  I  tell  thee  thy  soul  is  died  with  blood  !  Blood — 
blood — blood  crieth  out  against  thee  for  vengeance  ! 
It  was  licked  up  by  the  thirsty  earth,  into  its  dark 
womb,  where  it  is  preserved  until  now!  Cain! — dost 
thou  hear  the  curse  which  is  denounced  upon  thee  V 
inquired  the  monk,  through  his  closed  teeth. 

During  the  whole  of  this  heart-freezing  recapitula- 
tion, Davie  had  gazed  fixedly  on  the  gloomy  speaker, 
with  a  lacklustre  eye,  and  his  features  bedewed  with  a 
clammy  sweat.  His  horse  had  for  some  time  ceased 
to  move,  as  if  the  withering  words  of  the  monk  had 
operated  as  a  spell  on  the  horse  as  well  as  the  rider. 
At  length  the  monk  shook  him  from  his  lethargy. 

"  Davie  !  dost  thou  hear  thine  accuser  ?" 

"  Oh,  thou  fiend,  thou  fiend  !  why  dost  thou  fright 
me  ?"  gasped  Davie,  striving  to  trace  the  figure  of  the 
cross. 

"  Away  home,  Davie  !  J  will  meet  thee  again ! 
See  thou  be  prepared  for  my  coming!" 

More  dead  than  alive,  Davie  urged  his  horse  gently 
forward.  The  monk  watched  him  till  the  winding 
pathway  had  hid  him  from  his  view,  and  then  darted 
through  the  trees,  where  he  was  heard  rapidly  urging 
his  way  among  the  crashing  and  creaking  bushes,  as  he 
pushed  them  on  each  side. 

Davie  rode  along  for  some  time,  at  a  very  slow  and 
mournful  pace ;  but  a  sudden  recollection  of  the  last 
words  of  the  terrible  stranger — the  fearful  mystery  in 
which  he  was  shrouded — and  the  dreariness  of  his  own 
situation,  altogether,  so  awed  his  imagination,  and  over- 
cam©  his  feelings,  that  with  sudden  and  desperate 
vehemence  he  struck  his  horse,  till  it  bore  him  along 
at  a  rapid  rate.  He  soon  reached  the  borders  of  the 
forest,  and  rode  up  towards  a  pair  of  dim  and  lofty 
gates,  on  each  side  of  which  was  placed  a  rudely 
sculptured  boar,  scowling  with  great  fierceness.     He 

19* 


222  MONKWYND. 

dismounted,  and  fastened  his  horse  to  the  gate  with  a 
trembling  hand.  With  hurried,  unsteady  steps,  he 
passed  through  the  courtyard,  which  was  growing 
gloomy  with  the  shadows  of  evening.  He  approached 
a  large,  irregularly  built  mansion,  heavy  with  cumbrous, 
dingy-hued  timberworks ;  and  each  angle  was  garnished 
with  a  small  square  turret ;  but  for  what  earthly  use  is 
beyond  conjecture.  The  door  was  beneath  a  ponder- 
ous stone  porch.  He  raised  his  hand  to  the  latch;  but 
he  could  not  move  it.  Again  and  again  he  shook  the 
door,  with  what  little  strength  he  had  left,  but  he  heard 
only  its  faint  echoes  through  the  silent  chambers.  He 
called  out  faintly,  "  Jeanet  /"  but  received  no  answer. 
As  he  turned  round  to  examine  the  ground  casement, 
his  startled  eye  caught  a  glance  of  a  tall  dim  figure, 
gliding  swiftly  and  noiselessly  by  the  gates  through 
which  he  had  entered ;  and  his  ear  caught  the  low 
querulous  neighing  of  his  horse,  as  though  it  had  been 
startled  or  disturbed  by  the  being,  whoever  it  was,  that 
passed. 

Once  more  he  shook  the  oaken  door,  but  in  vain.  He 
leaned  disconsolately  against  the  porch,  and  groaned. 
He  was  gazing  on  the  door,  when  he  saw  it  move :  he 
pushed  it  and  it  fell  back.  After  a  moment's  pause  of 
apprehension,  he  crossed  the  threshold.  Had  he  pos- 
sessed sufficient  recollection  and  presence  of  mind,  he 
might  have  been  surprised  and  alarmed  at  the  sudden 
opening  of  the  door — but  it  escaped  his  notice.  As 
he  paced  the  dim  passage,  his  heart  leaped  within  him 
at  the  echo  of  every  footfall.  He  was  surprised  at  the 
unusual,  the  dreary,  the  ominous  silence  which  per- 
vaded the  house.  Sickening  with  a  vague  apprehen- 
sion of  horror,  he  ascended  the  oaken  stairs  which  led 
to  his  sleeping  chamber.  He  opened  the  door.  The 
last  lingering  sunlight,  which  shed  a  melancholy  gleam 
around,  revealed  to  him  the  figure  of  his  wife,  stretched 
in  blood  on  the  floor,  which  had  issued  from  a  wound 
in  her  breast,  where  the  fatal  instrument  yet  remained. 
He  seemed  petrified,  as  his  reeling  eyes  encountered 


MONKWYND.  223 

the  staring  eyeballs  of  his  murdered  wife.  While  he 
gazed  in  silence  on  the  frightful  spectacle,  he  heard  a 
wild  unmeaning  laugh  behind  him :  he  turned  round 
with  tottering  steps,  and  beheld  the  monk. 

u  Ha,  Davie  !  art  thou  at  thy  trade  of  blood  again?'* 
he  inquired,  with  bitter  derision. 

Davie's  limbs  refused  him  any  longer  support ;  and 
he  fell  down  by  the  side  of  his  wife,  his  eyes  still  riv- 
eted on  the  fiendish  figure  of  the  monk. 

The  monk  drew  back  his  sleeves  from  his  hands, 
and  knelt  down  deliberately  by  his  side.  He  slowly 
drew  out  the  long  knife,  which  stood  in  the  gashed 
bosom  of  the  wife. 

"  Dost  thou  remember,  I  said  I  would  meet  thee 
again  ?     Art  thou  prepared  F 

He  wiped  the  wet  blade  upon  his  sleeve,  and,  with 
terrible  calmness,  unbuckled  Davie's  tunic.  He  laid 
his  hand  upon  Davie's  heart. 

M  Thou  art  still  warm  with  life,  Davie  :  it  is  warm  !'' 
he  continued,  and  it  seemed  as  though  a  pang  of  mo- 
mentary remorse  thrilled  through  his  black  heart ;  for 
he  folded  his  arms  on  his  breast,  and  gazed  anxiously 
on  the  haggard  countenance  of  his  unresisting  victim. 

"  Davie  !  dost  thou  remember  me  F  asked  the  monk, 
flinging  wide  his  hood. 

*  My  brother  !"  gasped  the  dying  wretch. 

The  words  had  scarcely  quivered  from  his  lips,  when 
the  monk  uplifted  his  knife,  and  plunged  it  thrice  into 
his  bosom,  yelling,  "  Die,  accursed  ! — die,  die,  die  ! 

-  It  is  done  !"  groaned  the  monk  ;  "  now  for  Italy." 
He  sprang  from  the  scene  of  fratricidal  horror,  and 
hurried  through  the  courtyard. 

Soon  after  the  monk  had  left  the  cavern  in  Monk- 
wynd  Forest,  Father  Gootle  contrived  to  rouse  his  sink- 
ing spirits,  by  an  appeal  to  a  sure  and  often-tried  friend 

a  flask  of  Gascon  wine,  which  he  had  concealed 

in  a  dark  corner  by  way  of  dernier  resort.  Never 
had  a  similar  application  been  so  instantaneously  suc- 
cessful.    It  infused  new  life  and  vigour  into  his  system, 


224  MONKWYND. 

and  recruited  his  mental  energies.     He  commenced  a 

soliloquy. 

"  An  it  please  Heaven,  this  deed  of  blood  shall 
either  be  prevented,  or  visited  with  due  punishment. 
It  will  be  a  deed  of  excellent  service  to  the  church. 
But  what  an  1  should  perish,  in  working  this  good  1 
Could  the  holy  mother  church  afford  to  lose  me  ?  Truly, 
I  fear  not.  Marry,  this  is  my  consolation,  Sanguis 
martyrum  semen  ecclcsice,  as  one  saith.  My  singular 
eloquence  hath  often,  in  times  past,  edified  the  church ; 
and  I  have  done  many  other  excellent  things,  which  it 
becometh  not  me  to  name.  And — supposing  I  should 
die,  at  a  sudden  push,  in  defence  of  the  church's  purity 
— hem,  hem,"  chuckled  the  friar — "methinks  it  would 
sound  indifferent  well  in  after  ages,  for  folks  to  beseech 
the  intercession  of  Blessed  St.  Gootle !  But  I  must 
be  doing :  ay,  i'faith  ;  and  what  shall  I  do  ?■  Here  a 
short  pause  ensued.  "  I  will  hie  me  to  Wrexham, 
(which  lieth  at  little  more  that  half  a  mile's  distance,) 
to  Irongripe,  the  bailiff,  and  bring  him,  with  some  few 
other  stout  fellows,  to  Davie's  house  ;  and  our  Lady 
grant  I  may  be  in  time  to  prevent  the  shedding  of 
blood !" 

It  is  true,  the  fierce  threats  of  the  monk  came  to  his 
remembrance ;  but  then  he  easily  consoled  and  forti- 
fied himself  with  mentioning  the  words,  "  Blessed  St. 
Gootle"  So  away  went  the  good  father,  as  fast  as  his 
limbs  could  carry  him,  puffing  all  the  way  to  Wrex- 
ham. He  was  successful.  Irongripe,  a  very  valiant 
and  noted  thieftaker,  instantly  accompanied  him  with 
three  other  bloodhound  followers.  They  met  the  monk 
riding  rapidly  along  on  the  horse  of  Davie. 

"  See — see  the  blood  on  his  cloak !  Loofc,  stout 
Irongripe  !" 

The  monk  heard  the  voice  of  the  friar,  and  looked 
up :  for  he  was  riding  along  moodily,  with  his  eyes 
bent  towards  the  ground.  He  saw  Father  Gootle,  who 
had  considerably  preceded  Irongripe  and  his  party. 
He  sprang  from  his  horse,  exclaiming, 


MONKWYND.  225 

«Thou  here,  caitiff?     Die!" 

Before  he  had  seized  the  trembling  friar,  the  monk 
was  locked  in  the  strong  arms  of  the  bailiff  and  his 
constables, 

"  Die  !  thou  caitiff  friar!  Die,  caitiff!"  thundered 
the  monk,  his  eye  still  singling  out  Father  Gootle — at 
the  same  time  that  he  struggled  to  burst  from  those 
who  held  him, 

u  Haste  thee  !  Haste  thee,  holy  rather  !  Mount 
that  horse,  and  ride  off  for  thy  life !"  roared  out  one 
of  the  men.  Fear  lent  agility  to  the  exhausted  friar  : 
he  managed  to  clamber,  with  some  little  difficulty,  into 
the  saddle,  and  was  out  of  sight  presently. 

The  infuriated  monk  struggled  like  a  giant  with  his 
resolute  and  powerful  assailants.  Twice  he  burst  from 
their  united  grasp,  and  flung  Irongripe  and  his  head 
constable  on  the  ground  with  stunning  violence.  But 
his  opponents,  besides  being  familiar  with  such  en- 
counters, were  well-trained  wrestlers,  and  rose  unhurt 
from  every  fall. 

"  Unhand  me,  knaves  !  Bloodthirsty  villains,  away  !* 
roared  the  monk,  as  he  hurled  them  off  on  all  sides. 
He  perceived,  however,  that  his  strength  began  to  fail, 
while  that  of  his  assailants  seemed  wholly  exhausted. 
His  eyes  glared  furiously  around  him  ;  in  the  darkness 
he  discovered  his  revenge. 

"The  cliff!  the  cliff!  He  drags  us  to  the  cliff's 
edge !  Hold,  away,  or  we  are  lost !"  shouted  the  con- 
stables. The  powerful  monk  swayed  his  devoted  foes 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  fatal  verge.  Around  three 
he  wreathed  his  giant  arms :  he  had  devoted  them  to 
destruction. 

"Help,  as  ye  are  men!  Help!"  roared  Irongripe, 
as  a  body  of  horsemen  appeared,  bearing  torches^ 
headed  by  the  indefatigable  friar.  -  Again,  trusting  to 
their  instant  arrival,  he  rushed  to  the  rescue  of  his 
companions.  But  the  monk  also  had  seen  the  ap- 
proaching reinforcement ;  and,  with  a  last  tremendous 
effort,  whirled  himself  and  his  four  assailants  from  the 


226  MONKWYND* 

precipice.  Close  clasped  together  in  the  embrace,  of 
death,  they  fell,  crashing  from  crag  to  cragv  into  the 
river  beneath. 

When  the  horsemen,  with  their  waving  torches, 
galloped  to  the  scene  of  this  terrible  catastrophe,  it 
was  overspread  with  the  pall  of  silence  and  darkness. 

Ever  after  this  terrible  transaction,  superstition  hung 
her  portentous  ensign  over  the  ancient  forest  of  Monk- 
wynd  and  the  house  of  the  murdered  Davie.  The 
peasant  who  dared  to  linger  within  its  dreary  precincts 
an  hour  after  sunset,  was  esteemed  unusually  stout 
hearted.  But  as  for  Davie's  mansion,  if  report  may  be 
credited,  none  ever  had  the  temerity  to  enter  its  blood- 
stained walls,  which  were  suffered,  year  after  year,  to 
crumble  in  solitary  gloom  and  desolation.  Many  le- 
gends of  the  spectre  monk  (first  promulgated,  perhaps, 
by  Father  Gootle)  were  current  in  the  neighbourhood. 
Nay,  one  very  valiant  fellow  went  so  far  as  to  say  he 
had  several  times  seen,  in  the  gloom  of  evening,  a  tall, 
gaunt,  dim  shape,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  Monkwynd 
Cliff,  (as  it  was  called,)  which  then  sank  down  out  of 
sight :  which  circumstance,  as  he  very  sagaciously 
predicted,  evinced  that  his  soul  was  doomed  to  suffer 
penance  there,  for  nobody  knows  how  many  centuries. 

As  for  Father  Gootle,  I  have  never  beeil  able  to 
meet  with  any  information  respecting  his  history  ;  and, 
as  one  never  hears,  in  the  Cornish  calendar,  of  the 
name  "  Blessed  St.  Gootle"  we  may  fairly  infer  that 
he  was  never  thought  worthy  of  canonization. 


END    OF    MONKWYND. 


THE    BRACELETS.* 


A    SKETCH    FROM    THE    GERMAN. 


It  was  late  on  the  evening  of  a  gloomy  and  bitter 
day  in  December,  about  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  that  Carl  Koecker,  a  student  of  Goettingen 
University,  having  sipped  his  last  cup  of  coffee,  was 
sitting  thoughtfully  in  his  room,  with  his  feet  crossed 
and  resting  on  the  fender  of  his  little  fireplace.  His 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  fire,  which  crackled  and  blazed 
briskly,  throwing  a  cheerful  lustre  over  his  snug  study. 
All  the  tools  of  scholar  craft  lay  about  him.  On  a 
table  by  his  side  lay  open  various  volumes  of  classic 
and  metaphysic  lore,  which  showed  evident  marks  of 
service,  being  much  thumbed  and  fingered  ;  sundry 
note  books,  filled  with  memoranda  of  the  day's  studies, 
and  a  case  of  mathematical  instruments.  Two  sides 
of  the  chamber  were  lined  with  well-filled  book  shelves; 
on  one  side  was  the  window,  and  the  corresponding  one 
was  occupied  by  a  large  dusky  picture  of  Martin  Lu- 
ther. All  was  silent  as  the  most  studious  German 
could  desire ;  for  the  stillness  was,  so  to  speak,  but 

*  The  subtle  schemes  resorted  to  by  the  Inquisition  for  the  detec- 
tion and  seizure  of  its  victims,  are  too  well  known  for  an  intelligent 
reader  to  charge  any  portions  of  the  ensuing  narrative  with  improba- 
bility or  exaggeration.  In  a  word — all  that  the  wit  and  power  of 
devils  can  devise  and  execute,  may  wellnighbe  believed  of  the  mem- 
bers of  that  execrable  institution. 


228  THE    BRACELETS. 

enhanced  by  the  whispered  tickings  of  an  oldfash* 
ioned  family  watch,  suspended  over  the  mantelpiece. 
As  for  Carl  himself,  he  was  of  u  goodly  look  and  stat- 
ure." His  shirt  neck  lay  open,  with  the  spotless  collar 
turned  down  on  each  side  ;  his  right  hand  lay  in  his 
bosom,  and  his  left,  leaning  on  the  table,  supported  his 
"  learning-laden"  head.  His  brow  was  furrowed  with 
thoughtful  anxiety,  which,  together  with  his  sallow 
features  and  long  black  mustaches,  gave  him  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  much  older  man  than  he  really  was.  As 
for  his  thoughts,  it  were  difficult  to  say  whether,  at  the 
moment  when  he  is  presented  to  the  reader,  they  were 
occupied  by  the  mysterious  pneumatological  specula- 
tions of  Doctor  Von  Dunder  Profondant,  which  Carl 
had  been  attempting  to  comprehend  in  the  morning's 
lecture  ;  whether  his  fancy  was  revelling  in  recollec- 
tions of  the  romantic  splendours  of  last  night's  opera, 
or  whether  they  were  fixed,  with  painful  interest,  on 
the  facts  of  a  seizure  made  that  day  in  Goettingen  by 
the  terrible  myrmidons  of  the  Inquisition,  on  the  double 
charge  of  heresy  and  sorcery.  The  frightful  tribunal 
alluded  to  was  then  in  the  plenitude  of  its  power,  and 
its  mysterious  and  ferocious  doings  were  exciting  nearly 
as  much  indignation  as  they  had  long  occasioned  con- 
sternation. Carl  was  of  a  very  speculative,  abstract 
turn,  and  having  been  early  initiated  into  the  gloomy 
depths  of  transcendentalism,  had  begun  latterly  to  turn 
his  thoughts  towards  the  occult  sciences. 

About  the  period  when  this  narrative  commences,  it 
was  generally  understood  that  a  professor  of  the  art 
diabolic  had  visited  the  principal  places  of  Germany, 
and  was  supposed  to  have  made  several  converts  among 
the  learned,  as  well  as  to  have  founded  secret  schools 
for  teaching  the  principles  of  his  science.  The  lynx- 
eyed  Inquisition  soon  searched  him  out,  and  the  unfor- 
tunate professor  of  magic  suddenly  disappeared,  without 
ever  again  being  heard  of.  The  present  object  of  those 
holy  censors  of  mankind,  the  principals  of  the  Inquisi- 
tion, was  to  discover  the  schools  he  had  founded,  and 


THE    BRACELETS.  229 

the  disciples  attending  them.  Several  of  the  leading 
students  at  Goettingen  had  fallen  under  suspicion,  and 
Carl  Koecker,  it  was  said,  among  the  number.  He 
was  cunning  enough,  however,  to  avoid  any  possible 
pretext  for  offence,  by  saying  little — and  even  that  little1 
in  disparagement  of  the  objectionable  doctrines. 

Carl  had  just  set  down  his  coffee  pot  on  the  hob, 
after  an  abortive  effort  to  extract  another  cup  from  it, 
and  was  stirring  together  the  glowing  embers  of  his  fire, 
when  he  was  startled  by  a  loud  knocking  at  his  door. 
It  is  not  asserted  that  the  sound  caused  him  to 
change  colour,  but  that  he  heard  it  with  a  little  trepi- 
dation, is  undeniable.  Who,  on  earth,  could  be  want- 
ing him  ? 

Rap,  rap,  rap  !     Rap,  rap,  rap  ! 

Carl  gently  laid  down  the  poker,  but  did  not  move 
from  his  seat.  He  listened — his  heart  beat  quick  and 
hard.  I  seemed  evident  that  the  obstreperous  applicant 
for  admission  was  resolved  on  effecting  his  purpose 
one  way  or  another ;  for,  in  a  few  seconds,  the  door 
was  shaken,  and  with  some  violence.  Carl,  almost 
fancying  he  had  been  dreaming,  started  from  his  seat, 
and  cast  an  alarmed  eye  towards  the  scene  of  such  un- 
seemly interruptions.  Ay — the  door  was  really,  visibly- 
shaken,  and  that,  too,  very  impetuously.  Who  could  it 
be — and  what  the  matter  ?  Was  it  one  of  his  cred- 
itors ?  He  did  not  owe  five  pounds  in  the  world.  A 
fellow-student?  The  hour  was  too  late,  and  Carl,  be- 
sides, of  such  a  reserved  and  unsocial  turn  as  to  have 
scarce  one  acquaintance  at  college  on  visiting  terms 
A  thief  ?  He  would  surely  effect  his  entrance  more 
quietly.  Were  some  of  his  relatives  come  to  Goet- 
tino-en?  was  any  member  of  his  family  ill!  was  it 
merely  drunk  Jans,  the  janitor?  Who— who  could  it 
be  ?  thought  the  startled  student. 

Rap,  rap,  rap,  rap  !     Rap,  rap,  rap  ! 

Carl  almost  over-threw  the  chair  he  was  standing  by, 
snatched  up  his  little  lamp,  and  stole  to  the  door. 

«*  Who  the  d — 1  is  without,  there?"  he  inquired,  an 

20 


230  THE    BRACELETS. 

grily,  but  not  very  firmly,  with  one  hand  hesitatingly 
.extended  towards  the  door  handle,  and  the  other  hold- 
ing his  lamp ;  the  flame  of  which,  by-the-way,  he  fan- 
cied flickered  oddly. 

"  Who  is  without  there  V  he  asked  again,  for  his 
first  question  had  received  no  answer. 

Rap,  rap,  rap,  rap,  rap  !     Rap,  rap,  rap — 

"  In  the  devil's  name,  who  are  you  ?" 

M  Who  am  I V  replied  a  husky  and  somewhat  hol- 
low voice  from  without.  "  Who  am  I,  i'faith  ?  Let 
me  in  !  Let  me  in !  Mercy — you  could  not  be  more 
uncivil,  or  perchance  affrighted,  if  I  were  Jans  Cut- 
purse,  or  the  spirit  of  the  Hartz  mountains.  Let  me 
in,  Carl  Koecker,  I  say^ — let  me  in!" 

"  Let  you  in  !     Der  teufel  I" 

"  Come,  come — open  the  door  \n 

•*  Who  are  you  ?  Who  the  d — 1  are  you,  I  say  V7 
continued  Carl,  pressing  his  right  hand  and  knee 
against  the  door. 

"  Let  me  in  at  once,  Carl  Koecker — let  me  in,  I  say, 
or  it  may  fare  fearfully  with  you  !" 

"  Mein  Gott !"  exclaimed  the  confounded  student, 
looking  askance  at  his  lamp,  as  though  he  expected  to 
find  a  confidential  adviser  in  it.  The  knocker,  how- 
ever, recommenced  operations  with  such  astounding 
rapidity  and  violence,  that  Carl,  in  a  momentary  fit  of 
fear  and  confusion,  unguardedly  opened  the  door.  A 
tide  of  objurgatory  expressions  gashed  up  to  his  tongue, 
when  some  one  suddenly  slipped  through  the  door  past 
Carl,  made  his  way  to  the  fireplace,  and  sat  down  in 
the  armchair  which  had  been  recently  occupied  by 
the  student.  This  was  done  with  xhe  easy  matter-of- 
fact  air  of  the  most  intimate  acquaintance.  Carl  Ko- 
ecker still  held  the  handle  of  the  door,  staring  open  eyed 
and  open  mouthed  at  the  stranger,  with  unutterable 
amazement. 

"Good  Carl,  prithee,  now,  shut  the  door — for  'tis 
bitter  cold,"  exclaimed  the  unbidden  guest,  in  a  fa- 
miliar tone,  dragging  his  seat  close  to  the  fire,,  and  rub- 


THE    BRACELETS.  231 

bing  together  his  shrivelled  fingers,  to  quicken  the  cir- 
culation. 

"Come,  Carl!  shut  the  door,  and  sit  down  here," 
continued  the  stranger,  entreatingly.     Carl,  completely 
bewildered,  obeyed,  and  sat  down  in  a  chair  opposite 
the  stranger.     The  latter    seemed  not  unlike   a  Jew 
pedler.     He  was  small  in  stature,  but  of  sinewy  make. 
He  wore  a  short,  coarse,  drab-coloured  coat  or  tunic, 
with  double  rows  of  huge  horn  buttons.     His  vest  was 
of  the  same  material,  and  cut ;  and,  as  was  usual  in 
those  days  with  itinerant  venders  of  valuable  articles, 
he  had  a  broad  leathern  girdle  about  his  waist,  with  a 
pouch  on  the  inside.     His  short,  shrunk,  curved  legs 
were  enveloped  in  worsted  overalls,  soiled  and  spat- 
tered with  walking  in  the  mud.     Removing  a  broad- 
brimmed  hat,  he  disclosed  a  fine  bald  head  fringed  round 
the  base  with  a  few  straggling  gray  hairs.     His  face 
was  wrinkled  and  of  a  parchment  hue  ;  and  his  spark- 
ling black  eyes  peered  on  the  student  with  an  expres- 
sion of  keen  and  searching  inquisitiveness.     Carl,  in 
his  excitement,  almost  fancied  the  stranger's  eyes  to 
glare  on  him  with  something  like  a  swinish  voracity. 
He  shuddered ;  and  was  but  little  more  reconciled  to 
the  strange  figure  before  him,  when  a  furtive  glance 
had  assured  him  that  at  least  the  feet  were  not  cloven! 
^Yhen  he  allowed  himself  to  dwell  for  a  few  moments 
on  the  strange  circumstances  in  which  he  was  placed 
— alone — near  midnight,  with  nobody  knew  whom — a 
thief,  a  murderer,  a  wizard — a  disguised  satellite  of 
the  infernal  Inquisition — a  devil,  for  aught  he  knew— 
when,  in  a  word,  he  gazed  at  the  strange  intruder,  sit- 
ting quietly  and  silently  by  the  fire,  with  the  air  rather 
of  host  than  guest,  and  reflected  how  far  he  was  out  of 
hearing  or  assistance,  if  aught  of  violence  human  or 
supernatural  should  be  offered — it  was  no  trifling  effort 
that  enabled  him  to  preserve  a  tolerable  show  of  calm- 
ness. 

"  Heighho !"  grunted  the  old  man,  in  a  musing  tone, 


232  THE    BRACELETS. 

with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  lire,  and  his  skinny  fingers 
clasped  over  each  knee. 

"  H — e — m !"  muttered  Carl,  his  eyes,  as  it  were, 
glued  to  those  of  his  guest. 

"  Well,  Carl,"    said  the  stranger,  suddenly,    as   if 
, starting  from  a  re  very  ;  "it  grows  very  late,  and   I 
must  begone  ere  long,  having  far  to  travel,  and  on  press- 
ing errands.     So  shall  we  discourse  a  little  touching 
philosophy,  or  proceed  at  once  to  business  ?" 

"Proceed  to  business?" 

"  Yes,  I  say,  proceed  to  business.  Is  there  any- 
thing so  very  odd  in  that  ?"  inquired  the  old  man,  slowly, 
with  a  surprised  air. 

M  Business  !  Business .'"  exclaimed  Carl,  muttering 
to  himself ;  and  he  added,  in  a  louder  tone,  addressing 
himself  to  his  visiter — "  Why,  what  the  dev — " 

<;  Pho,  pho,  Carl !  We  have  nothing  whatever  to  do 
with  the  devil — at  least  J  have  not,"  replied  the  old 
man,  with  an  odd  leer.  "  But,  with  your  good  leave, 
Carl,  we  will  settle  our  business  first,  and  then  proceed 
to  discourse  on  a  point  of  Doctor  Von  Dunder's  lecture 
of  this  morning."  So  this  extraordinary  personage  had 
been  present  at  Doctor  Von  Dunder's  that  morning — 
and,  further,  knew  that  Carl  had  ! 

"  Carl,"  continued  the  stranger,  abruptly,  "  are  you 
still  anxious  for  the  bracelets  ?" 

The  question  suddenly  blanched  Carl's  face,  and  his 
eyes  seemed  starting  from  their  sockets,  as  he  mut- 
tered, or  rather  gasped  in  faltering  accents.  "  Devil ! 
devil!  devil! — what  want  you  with  me?  Why  are 
you  come  hither  ?"  He  shook  in  his  seat ;  for  a  certain 
circumstance  occasioned  a  suspicion  of  the  stranger's 
being  an  emissary  of  the  Inquisition  to  flash  across  the 
mind  of  the  affrighted  student. 

"  Who  sent  you  hither  ?"  he  inquired,  in  faltering  ac- 
cents. 

11  Why,  in  Heaven's  name,  are  you  so  disturbed,  Carl  ? 
I  am  really  neither  the  devil  nor  one  of  his  minions — 


THE    BRACELETS.  233 

having  neither  wit  nor  power  enough  for  either,"  said 
the  stranger,  mildly. 

"Then you  are  worse — you  are  from  the  Inquisition 
— and  are  sent  to  ensnare  my  soul  to  hell,  and  my 
body  to  tortures  horrible  !"  rejoined  Carl,  a  cold  sweat 
suddenly  bedewing  his  whole  frame. 

"  Why,  if  it  were  so,  I  must  surely  be  bolder  than 
wise,  to  venture  on  such  odds  as  are  here.  I  am  old 
and  somewhat  shaken  of  strength  ;  you  young  and  lion- 
like. Which  would  have  the  better,  think  you,  in  a 
struggle  V  continued  the  stranger,  meekly. 

"  Why,"  replied  Carl,  still  shivering  with  the  fearful 
suspicion,  "  you  speak  fairly  and  reasonably  ;  and  let 
me  then  as  fairly  tell  you,  that  whoever  you  be,  if  you 
be  but  mortal,  and  wrong  me,  or  attempt  me  mischief, 
I  will  put  you  to  death  as  calmly  and  surely  as  I  show 
you  this" — and  he  drew  a  small  poniard  from  his  vest, 
clasped  it  fiercely  in  his  hand,  and  extended  the  keen, 
thirsty -looking  blade  to  the  stranger,  who  merely 
crossed  his  hands  on  his  breast,  and  looked  upward 
with  an  innocent  air. 

"  Did  I  not  say  I  was  in  your  power,  Carl  1  And  is 
it  probable  I  shall  seek  an  offence  with  you  ?  Would 
I,  an  old  feeble  man — " 

u  What  brought  you  hither  ?  What  made  you  cause 
the  uproar  at  my  door  just  now?"  inquired  Carl,  with 
some  show  of  self-possession. 

li  Oh,  faith — that  is  easily  answered.  Business — 
business  !  I  have  much  to  do  with  you,  and  but  small 
time  to  do  it  in.  Truly,  your  fears  are  all  false !  I 
am,  I  repeat  it,  but  a  man,  even  as  you  are — with  the 
difference  of  an  odd  year  or  two— ugh !  ugh !  ugh !" 
continued  the  stranger,  with  a  feeble  asthmatic  laugh. 
"  But,  to  be  short.  If  your  heart  is  still  set  upon  the 
bracelets — I  may,  perhaps,  put  you  in  the  way  of  ob- 
taining them." 

Carl  strove  to  look  calm — but  the  thing  was  impos- 
sible.    His  colour  faded,  his  heart  seemed  fluttering 

20* 


234  THE    BRACELETS. 

about  his  throat  as  though  it  would  choke  him,  and  his 
eyes  emitted  coruscations  of  fire. 

"  Old  man  !  whoever,  whatever  you  are — I  suppli- 
cate you  to  tell  me  how  you  know  anything  about  the 
matter  you  speak  of!  How  came  you  to  know  that  I 
had  any  care  about  the — the — the  bracelets  ?" — he 
could  scarce  get  out  the  word — "  for  I  have  not  breathed 
a  syllable  about  them  to  any  one  human !" 

"  How  did  I  know  it  ?  Pho  !  it  might  be  a  long, 
perchance  a  dull  tale,  were  I  to  explain  how  I  came 
by  my  knowledge  in  this  matter.  Enough  that  I  know 
your  soul  gapes  to  get  the  bracelets.  In  a  word,  I 
came  not  here  to  tell  you  how  I  know  what  I  do,  but 
simply  to  put  you  in  the  way  of  obtaining  your  wishes." 

A  cold  stream  of  suspicion  flowed  over  Carl's  mind 
while  the  stranger  spoke — and  when  Carl  reverted  to 
the  many  subtle  devices  known  to  be  adopted  by  the 
Inquisition  for  entrapping  their  prey.  Still  Carl's  anx- 
ious curiosity  prevailed  over  his  fears.  The  old  man, 
after  fumbling  a  while  about  the  inner  part  of  his  girdle, 
took  out  what  seemed  to  Carl  a  large  snuff  or  tobacco 
box.  Opening  it,  he  slowly  removed  two  or  three 
layers  of  fine  wool ;  and  then  there  glistened  before 
the  enchanted  eyes  of  the  student  one  of  the  most  re- 
splendent bracelets  that  had  ever  issued  from  the  hands 
of  cunning  jeweller.  He  was  lost,  for  a  second  or 
two,  in  speechless  ecstasy. 

"  Oh,  rare  !  oh,  exquisite — exquisite  bracelet !"  he 
gasped  at  length,  so  absorbed  with  the  splendid  bawble 
that  he  did  not  notice  the  almost  wolfish  glare  with 
which  the  old  man's  eyes  were  fixed  on  his.  "  And 
may  this  be  mine  ?  Did  you  not  say  you  could  put  it 
into  my  power  ?" 

"  Ay,  Carl,  it  may  be  yours  !"  replied  the  stranger, 
in  a  low,  earnest  tone,  still  fixedly  eying  his  compan- 
ion's countenance. 

««  Ay,  ay  !  it  may  ?  Name,  then,  the  price  !  Name 
your  price,  old  man  !"  exclaimed  Carl,  eagerly.  Check- 
ing himself,  however,  he  added  suddenly,  in  a  des- 


THE    BRACELETS-  235 

ponding  tone,  "  But  why  do  I  ask  its  price  ?  Fool  that 
I  am,  my  whole  fortune — ay,  the  fortunes  of  all  our 
family,  would  not  purchase  one  only  of  these  jewels  !" 

The  more  Carl  looked  at  the  gorgeous  toy,  the  more 
was  he  fascinated.  It  was  studded  with  gems  of  such 
amazing  brilliance,  as  to  present  the  appearance  of  a 
circle  of  delicate  violet  and  orange  hued  flame,  as  the 
stranger  placed  it  in  different  points  of  view.  Carl 
could  not  remove  his  eyes  from  the  bracelet. 

"  Take  it  into  your  own  hands — it  will  bear  a  close 
scrutiny,"  said  the  old  man,  proffering  the  box,  with 
its  costly  contents,  to  the  student,  who  received  it  with 
an  eager  but  trembling  hand.  As  he  examined  the 
gems,  he  discovered  one  of  superior  splendour  and 
magnitude  ;  and  while  his  eyes  were  riveted  upon  it 
— was  it  merely  his  nervous  agitation— or,  gracious 
God !  did  it  really  assume  the  appearance  of  a  human 
eye,  of  awful  expression  ? 

Carl's  eyes  grew  dim,  the  blood  retreated  to  his 
heart,  and  his  hands  shook  violently  as  he  pushed  back 
the  box  and  its  mysterious  contents  to  the  stranger. 
Neither  spoke  for  some  seconds.  The  old  man  gazed 
at  Carl  with  astonishment. 

"  What — what  shall  I  call  you?"  murmured  Carl,  as 
soon  as  he  had  recovered  the  power  of  speech.  "  What 
means  that — that — that  damned  eye  that  looks  at  me 
from  the  bracelet?  Do  your  superiors,  then,  use  even 
sorcery  to  inveigle  their  victims  ??  His  teeth  chattered. 
«'  Away  with  your  damned  magic  !  Out  on  you  ! 
Away — or  I  shall  call  for  help  from  without !"  And 
Carl  drew  half  out  his  poniard. 

"  Tut,  man,"  rejoined  the  stranger,  calmly,  after 
listening  with  patience  to  Carl's  objurgations.  "  Now, 
to  hear  you  rave  in  this  wise  !  You — a  man — a 
scholar  !  The  days  of  sorcery,  methinks,  are  gone  for 
ever ;  and  as  for  the  Inquisition  that  you  din  into  my 
ears,  I  myself  fear,  but  more  hate,  that  cruel  and  ac- 
cursed institution."  This  was  said  slowly  and  deeply 
*=-the  speaker's  eyes  searchingly  fixed  on  those  of  him 


236  THE    BRACELETS. 

he  addressed.  The  student,  however,  answered  not, 
and  the  old  man  resumed. 

"  'Tis  but  your  own  heated  fancy,  that  has  likened 
one  of  these  jewels  to  an  eye — he,  he,  he  !"  said  he, 
with  a  poor  attempt  at  laughter.  "  What  is  it  that  has 
frightened  you  but  a  large  diamond  ?  A  human  eye, 
i'faith — he,  he,  he  !  But,  to  away  with  these  wo- 
manish fancies,  I  would  know,  at  once,  Carl,  whether 
you  wish  to  call  yourself  the  owner  of  this  bracelet !" 

Carl  paused. 

"Will  you  give  me  no  answer,  Carl?" 

"  Ay — Heaven  knows  I  would  fain  be  its  master — 
for  'tis  an  enchanting,  a  dazzling — yet  a  fearful — " 

•'  Pshaw  !"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  impatiently. 

"  Well,  then,"  continued  Carl,  doubtingly,  "since 
temper  fails  you,  I  will  to  the  point.  Suppose,  then,  I 
were  in  a  manner  disposed — 1  mean — hem  !  What  I 
would  say,  is — in  short,  if  it  were  to  come  to  pass  that 
I  were  earnestly  desirous  (which  I  am  not)  of  having 
this  bracelet — not  for  myself,  mark  me,  but  for  an- 
other— " 

"  To  the  point,  man ! — to  the  point !"  interrupted 
the  stranger,  with  anxious  asperity. 

"  Well,  I  say,  if  I  were  disposed  to  purchase  the 
bracelet,  what  would  be  your  terms  ?  What  must  I 
do?     What  give?" 

M  Oh,  my  terms  are  most  easy  and  simple.  You 
may  perchance  laugh  at  hearing  them.  Find  but  the 
fellow  to  this  bracelet — and  both  shall  be  yours." 

Carl  suddenly  became  cold  and  pale.  The  stranger's 
peculiar  words  and  manner  had  roused  painful  suspi- 
cions in  the  breast  of  the  student — transiently,  however 
— that  certain  doings  of  his  must  be  intimately  known 
in  certain  awful  quarters  ;  and  the  stranger's  plan  was 
but  a  subtle  trap  for  making  him  develope  them.  This 
feeling,  however,  gradually  yielded  to  one  of  sheer  as- 
tonishment, as  the  stranger  repeated  his  terms,  in  a 
significant  tone,  and  with  great  earnestness  of  manner. 

"  I — 7,  Carl  Koecker — find  you  the  fellow  to  this 


THE    BRACELETS.  237 

bracelet !"  exclaimed  the  student.  "  Surely  you  must 
be  mad,  or  mocking  me." 

"  Whether  I  be  mad  or  not,  concerns  you  little,  so 
as  I  can  make  good  my  promise.  You  have  my 
terms." 

"  Will  you  give  me  till  to-morrow  night  to  consider 
whether  I  will  accept  them  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  the  stranger,  imperatively. 

"  Hem  !"  exclaimed  Carl,  suddenly,  but  with  a  puz- 
zled air,  wishing  to  put  the  stranger  off  his  guard — 
"  so  you  have  but  one  bracelet.  How  came  you  by  it ! 
You  know,  old  man,  that  if  I  buy  it,  I  must  be  satisfied 
that  I  can  keep  it." 

"Keep  your  questions  to  yourself.  Enough  foryou 
that  I  hare  it,"  replied  the  stranger,  sternly. 

"  Another  question,  nevertheless,  I  must  put.  Where 
is  the  other  bracelet  V 

"  It  must  be  sought  for,"  replied  the  old  man, 
gloomily,  placing  his  broad-brimmed  hat  on  his  head, 
as  if  to  overshadow  his  eyes  ;  "  and  it  is  worthy  the 
search,  though  a  prince  were  the  seeker.  He  who 
shall  have  this,  has  a  clew  mfallible  to  the  discovery 
of  the  other." 

"Then  why  not  search  for  it  yourself?"  inquired 
Carl,  quickly.  A  flush  overspread  the  stranger's  face, 
and  he  seemed,  for  a  moment,  somewhat  confused. 

"  You  are  sent  hither  by  the  Inquisition,"  said  Carl, 
with  a  cold  shudder — at  the  same  time  plunging  his 
right  hand  into  his  bosom,  in  search  of  his  poniard — 
half  resolved  to  take  summary  vengeance  on  the  daring 
and  cruel  spy.  He  controlled  himself,  however,  and 
repeated  his  question  in  a  calmer  tone. 

"  Why  do  not  you  seek  for  the  fellow-bracelet,  old 
man  ?" 

"  I  may  not,  Carl.  That  must  be  sufficient  for  you. 
You  need  not  enter  on  the  search — you  need  not  take 
this  bracelet ;  but  if  you  will  venture,  and  should  suc- 
ceed, 'twill  be  the  greatest  day's  work  you  ever  did. 
It  will  bring  you  riches  and  honour  ;  and,  above  all, 


238  THE    BRACELETS. 

you  shall  see  both  these  beautiful  trinkets  glistening 
on  the  white  arms  of  her — " 

"  Hold  !  I  madden  !  Speak  not !"  gasped  Carl, 
springing  with  sudden  emotion  from  his  chair — pressing 
his  hands  against  his  forehead,  and  gazing  fixedly  on 
the  bracelet,  which  the  stranger  still  held  in  his  hands. 

"  'Tis  an  overwhelming  thought,  truly  !  It  is  ! — but 
— but — /find  the  fellow  to  tins  bracelet  V  he  continued, 
with  a  bewildered  air ;  "  where,  in  Heaven's  name,  am 
I  to  search  for  it  V1 

"  Where  you  can,  and  where  you  dare,"  replied  the 
stranger,  emphatically.  Carl  was  struck  with  the  tone 
and  manner. 

"  And  how  long  shall  I  have  to  try  my  fortune  ? 
Tut! — 'tis  an  idle — a  mad  question  truly,  a  foolish 
scheme  ;  but  supposing — in  a  word,  how  long  will  you 
give  me  !" 

"  Two  days  from  this  time  ;  and  on  the  third  I  will 
come  and  see  you  again." 

Alone  V  inquired  Carl,  with  a  searching  glance. 

"  Yes — alone,"  replied  the  stranger,  pointedly.    , 

"  And  can  you  give  me  no  clew  whatever? — none  ?". 

"  No,  assuredly.  Else  the  merit  of  your  search 
would  fail.  You  will  not  be  long  in  finding  one,  if  you 
do  but  set  about  the  search  heartily.  Ah,  Carl,  Carl," 
he  added,  suddenly,  with  as  much  gayety  as  his  ex- 
traordinary features  could  assume,  "you  have  a  white 
hand,  and  a  small  wrist !"  Carl  glanced  at  them  com- 
placently. "  I  wonder,  now,  whether  it  were  small 
enough  for  this  bracelet  ?  Try  it  on,  man — try  it  on ! 
Your  wrist,  I  think,  is  but  a  trifle  larger  than  hers — " 
The  last  words  brought  the  blood  into  Carl's  face,  even 
to  his  temples — and  a  tempest  to  his  soul.  Scarce 
"knowing  what  he  did,  he  took  the  glittering  bracelet, 
and  with  a  little  difficulty  clasped  it  about  his  wrist. 

"  Aha ! — how  wondrous  well  it  suits  you  !  In 
truth,  it  might  have  been  made  for  you  !  Your  wrist 
might  have  been  a  lady's  !"  said  the  old  man,  laughing  ; 
and,  rising  from  his  seat,  he  scrutinized  the  bracelet 


THE    BRACELETS.  239 

narrowly,  and  adjusted  it  more  nicely.  "  And  now, 
Carl  Koecker — see  you  part  not  with  it,  in  your  search  ! 
Farewell,  Carl !"  The  stranger  stepped  towards  the 
door. 

"  Stay — stay,  old  man  !"  exclaimed  the  student,  with 
surprise.  "Whither  are  you  going?  Ha — ha,  der 
teufel !"  he  continued,  almost  leaping  from  the  floor 
with  sudden  fright.  "  Why,  thou  fiend  !  I  cannot  re- 
move the  bracelet !  It  clings  to  my  wrist  like  ada- 
mant !  It  will  cut  my  hand  off!  Ah — ah — it  is  cutting 
to  the  bone,"  he  groaned.  He  strove  violently  to 
wrench  it  off.  "  Take  it  off!  Take  it  off — I  cannot 
move  it  !  Help,  help  ! — dear,  good  old  man,  for 
mercy's  sake — "  But  his  visiter  was  opening  the 
chamber  door,  anxious  to  be  gone.  Carl  followed  him, 
using  frantic  efforts  to  dislodge  the  bracelet  from  his 
wrist,  which  suffered  a  frightful  sense  of  compression. 

';  Good  sir  !  Kind  old  man — whoever  you  are,  what- 
ever you  come  from — whatever  your  errand,  for  God's 
love,  help  me  to  remove  this  bracelet !  Oh !"  he 
groaned,  "  will  you  not  take  it  off?" 

"Off? — never!"  shouted  the  old  man,  with  an  un- 
earthly laugh,  and  an  eye  of  horrible  derision.  The 
student  dropped  his  hands,  fell  back  aghast  a  pace  or 
two,  and  stared  at  the  stranger,  with  eyes  that  seemed 
bursting  from  their  sockets.  The  perspiration  started 
from  every  pore. 

';  Never — oh,  never — did  you  say  ?"  gasped  Carl, 
renewing  his  desperate  efforts  to  remove  the  bracelet. 
He  grew  desperate.  "  Villain  !  fiend  !  You  have 
played  a  hell  trick  against  me  !  Will  you  yet  say 
never  ?n 

"  Ay — never,  till  you  find  its  fellow,"  replied  the  old 
man,  shaking  his  shrivelled  finger  at  the  s:udent. 

"  Accursed  wretch  !  Deceiving  devil !  Then  will 
we  struggle  for  it.  Ho  !  have  at  you  !"'  aloud  shrieked 
Carl,  springing  forward  to  grapple  with  his  tormentor ; 
who,  however,  at  that  moment  slipped  through  the  open 
door,  shutting  it  in  Carl's  face  \  and  as  the   old  man 


240  THE    BRACELETS, 

went  rapidly  down  stairs,  Carl  heard  him  exclaiming 
in  tones  of  wild  and  echoing  laughter — fainter  and 
fainter  as  the  distance  increased,  "  Never,  Carl — never, 
never !" 

Carl  staggered  stupified  to  a  seat,  and  sat  for  some 
moments  the  image  of  despair.  He  would  have  rushed 
out  after  the  old  man,  but  that  a  deadly  faintness  seized 
him.  He  could  not  bring  his  scattered  senses  to  bear 
for  an  instant  on  any  one  point  of  the  preceding  inter- 
view. He  felt  like  a  man  suddenly  roused  at  midnight 
from  a  frightful  dream.  Had  he  been  asleep  and 
dreaming  ?  Alas,  no  !  There  was  fearful  evidence, 
palpable  and  visible,  of  waking  reality.  His  eye  hap- 
pened to  alight  on  the  bracelet  glistening  with  now  ab- 
horred splendour  on  his  wrist.  With  frantic  effort,  he 
once  more  strove  to  disengage  it,  but  in  vain.  He 
could  not  move  it ;  it  seemed  to  have  grown  into  him ! 
He  rose  from  his  chair,  and  paced  his  room  in  an  ec- 
stasy of  alternate  fear  and  fury.  What  had  come  to 
him  ?  Was  he  under  the  spell  of  witchcraft  ?  Was 
he  the  sport  of  diabolical  agency  ?  Or,  worse  than 
either — the  sealed  victim  of  the  Inquisition?  Had 
they  sent  their  emissary  to  probe  him,  and  leave  this 
cunningly  framed  bracelet  as  an  irremoveable  evidence 
of  their  man — even  as  sheep  are  marked  for  the 
slaughter?  As  this  latter  suspicion  flashed  across  his 
mind  with  increasing  probability,  he  sunk  in  his  chair, 
overwhelmed  with  anguish  and  horror  ;  and  from  his 
chair  to  the  floor.  What  was  to  become  of  him  ? 
What  could  he  do  ?  Whither  was  he  to  fly  ?  How 
ascertain  the  criminatory  extent  of  the  information  on 
which  they  acted?  He  knew  not!  .  He  closed  his 
eyes,  for  everything  about  him  seemed  turning  round, 
and  assuming  grotesque  images  and  positions.  After 
lying  for  some  minutes  on  the  floor,  he  suddenly 
sprang  to  his  feet,  convinced  that  the  extraordinary 
occurrences  of  the  evening  could  have  no  other  found- 
ation than  fancy — that  he  must  have  been  suffering 
from  the  nightmare.      He  stepped  into  his  sleeping 


THE    BRACELETS.  241 

room,  and  plunged  his  head  and  face  into  a  bowl  of 
cold  spring  water.  The  shock  for  a  few  moments  re- 
vived and  recollected  his  wandering  faculties  ;  but  in 
wiping  his  face,  the  accursed  bracelet  scratched  his 
cheek — the  delusions  of  hope  vanished  in  an  instant, 
and  flinging  aside  his  towel,  he  rushed  from  the  room 
in  despair.  The  silence  and  solitude  of  his  apartment 
were  horrible.  Whither  should  he  go,  that  the  Inqui- 
sition's hounds  could  not  follow,  find,  and  seize  him  ? 
He  began  to  imagine  that  they  had  pressed  the  arts  of 
sorcery  into  their  assistance.  He  felt,  in  a  word,  that 
his  fears  were  maddening  him.  He  could  bear  his 
rooms  no  longer  :  so  putting  his  cap  on  his  head,  and 
throwing  a  cloak  over  his  shoulders,  he  went  out  hoping 
to  see,  or  at  least  hear  tidings  of,  his  dreadful  visiter. 

The  night,  far  advanced,  was  cold  and  gloomy — the 
winds  blew  chilly,  and  the  snows  were  fluttering  fast. 
He  spoke  to  one  or  two  of  the  drowsy  shivering  watch, 
and  asked  whether  they  had  seen  any  one  answering 
to  the  description  of  his  visiter.  One  of  them  told  him, 
with  a  yawn,  that  only  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before,  he 
had  seen  an  old  man  pass  by,  that  stooped,  and  wore, 
he  thought,  a  broad  hat  and  drab  coat ;  that  he  walked 
at  a  great  rate  down  the  main  street,  followed  by  two 
mcnin  dark  dresses!  Carl  fell  into  the  arms  of  the 
watchman,  deprived  of  sense  and  motion.  The  last 
clause  of  the  man's  intelligence  had  confirmed  his 
worst  fears — the  Inquisition  were  after  him  ! 

After  a  while,  the  attentions  of  the  humane  night 
guardian,  backed  by  a  little  hot  ale  which  he  carried 
in  a  leathern  bottle,  sufficed  to  revive  Carl,  who  was 
able,  soon  after,  to  proceed,  after  giving  the  watchman 
some  small  coin.  What  was  Carl  now  to  do  1  To 
return  to  his  rooms  was  impossible.  He  hurried  on 
through  the  street,  why,  or  whither,  he  know  not.  He 
felt  a  sort  of  drowsiness  or  stupor  creeping  over  him. 
Suddenly  he  nearly  overthrew  what  .proved  to  be  a 
female  figure  muffled  in  a  long  dark  dress.  His  hair 
stood  on  end — for  at  the  first  moment,  he  mistook  her 
l  21 


242  THE    BRACELETS. 

figure  for  that  of  one  of  the  M  men  in  dark  dresses," 
spoken  of  by  the  watchman — of  the  familiars  of  the  In- 
quisition. While  recoiling  shudderingly  from  her,  he 
fancied  he  heard  himself  addressed.  "  Follow  !"  said 
the  low  hurried  voice  of  a  woman — "  follow  me,  and  be 
silent.  You  have  been  expected  this  half  hour.  'Tis 
foolish — 'tis  cruel  thus  to  delay  !" 

«' 1 — I  expected  .?"  gasped  the  staggering  student— 
"  why,  do  you  know  me  ?" 

"  Know  you  \ — why,  Carl  Koecker,  of  course,"  re- 
plied the  female ;  adding,  in  a  low  imploring  tone, 
"  Oh,  follow — for  Heaven's  sake,  follow  instantly,  or  all 
will  be  lost !" 

"  Lost ! — why,  am  not  7,  rather,  lost  ?  In  God's 
name,  whither  would  you  lead  me  ?  Are  you  in  league 
with  that  old — "  Carl  was  interrupted  by  his  com- 
panion's whispering  hurriedly,  M  Hush  !  the  good  folks 
of  Goettingen  will  hear  you !" 

She  had  scarce  uttered  the  last  words,  before  Carl 
thought  he  heard  the  faint  echo  of  many  voices  at 
some  distance,  from  behind — and  which  seemed,  as 
they  grew  nearer,  to  be  loud  and  tumultuous.  He 
suddenly  turned  towards  the  quarter  from  which  the 
sounds  of  distant  uproar  came,  when  he  beheld  several 
torches  gleaming  dimly  far  off,  and  held  by  persons 
hurrying  to  and  fro  in  all  directions.  The  sounds  ap- 
proached, and  became  more  distinct.  They  were 
those  of  alarm. 

c*  What  in  God's  name  is  stirring  now  ?"  inquired 
Carl  of  the  female  he  was  accompanying.  "  Can  you 
tell  me  wherefore  is  all  that  uproar?"  The  spectral 
stare  almost  froze  Carl's  blood,  as  she  answered  in  a 
low  quick  tone,  "Ah — do  not  you  know,  Carl  Koecker  ? 
A  deed  of  blood  and  horror — "  She  was  interrupted 
by  the  startling  clangour  of  the  alarm  bell,  pealing 
with  prodigious  rapidity  and  violence.  Carl  shuddered 
— and  well  he  might.  What  is  capable  of  inspiring 
more  thrilling  terror  than  the  gloomy  toll  of  a  church 
bell,  heard  with  sudden  loudness  at  midnight  ? 


THE    BRACELETS.  243 

The  whole  town  of  Goettingen  was  roused.  Carl 
listened — his  hair  stood  on  end — his  knees  tottered — 
his  brain  reeled — for  the  cries  were  those  of  murder 
and  revenge  :  and  amid  all  the  tumult  of  the  voices, 
and  the  sullen  tolling  of  the  bell,  Carl  distinctly  heard 
— his  own  name  !  Half  stunned  with  the  thought,  he 
listened — he  strained  his  ear  to  take  in  every  sound 
that  sent  it.  "  Carl  Koecker"  was  the  name  uttered  by 
a  hundred  tongues ;  and  Carl  Koecker  was  sought 
after  as  a  murderer.  He  would  have  shouted  in  answer 
— he  would  have  discovered  himself,  conscious  of  his 
innocence — but  he  felt  a  suffocating  pressure  about  his 
throat,  and  his  heart  seemed  fit  to  burst  through  his 
side.  Strange  lights  flashed  before  his  eyes,  and  his 
tottering  knees  seemed  about  to  refuse  him  any  longer 
their  support,  when  his  unknown  companion  suddenly 
grasped  his  hand  between  her  cold  fingers,  whispering, 
*'  Carl,  Carl — you  must  hasten  !  Fly  ! — fly  !  You 
will  fall  into  their  hands  !  They  are  yelling  for  you  ! 
They  are  as  tigers  drunk  with  blood !" 

"  I  care  not !  I  am  innocent !  I  have  done  no 
crime !  Why,  then,  should  I  fly  1  No,  I  will  stay, 
with  God's  help,  till  they  come  up,"  murmured  the 
fainting  student.  Meanwhile  the  clamour  of  voices 
grew  nearer  and  louder.  Innumerable  torches  flitted 
to  and  fro,  casting  a  discoloured  glare  over  the  dusky 
atmosphere. 

"  Haste,  Carl !  Haste,  murderer — haste  !  haste  !" 
muttered  the  woman  by  his  side  ;  "  Justice  flieth  quickly 
after  her  victims  !" 

tc  Wretch  !  what  are  you  saying  ?"  stammered  Carl, 
beginning  to  suspect  himself  the  victim  of  diabolical 
villany.  He  tried  to  grasp  his  companion  by  the  arm 
— but  his  hand  was  powerless.  A  sudden  recollection 
of  the  stranger  who  had  given  him  the  bracelet,  and  of 
the  mysterious  circumstances  attending  the  transaction, 
flashed  with  fearful  vividness  before  his  mind. 

"  Woman,  woman !"  he  faltered,  "  who  is  mm> 
dered  ?_  Is  it — is  it — " 

l2 


244  THE   BRACELETS. 

"  Fly,  fool !  Fly,  fly,  fly  !  The  familiars  are  near 
at  hand  !  The  blighting  brand  of  the  Inquisition  will 
discover — " 

"  The  what — what !"  groaned  Carl,  his  eyes  dark- 
ening for  an  instant,  and  his  voice  choked. 

"  Only  thou  fly,  fly  !"  continued  the  woman,  hurrying 
him  forward.  The  crowd  of  torch-bearers  seemed 
now  at  but  a  very  little  distance  ;  and  Carl,  over- 
whelmed and  bewildered — his  consciousness  of  inno- 
cence drowned  in  the  apprehension  of  pressing  danger 
— needed  but  little  urging  to  step  into  a  vehicle  stand- 
ing at  the  corner  of  a  street  they  had  just  entered.  He 
scarce  knew  what  he  was  doing.  Immediately  on  his 
sitting  down,  the  door  was  closed,  and  away  shot  the 
vehicle,  rolling  as  rapidly  as  four  fleet  horses  could 
carry  it. 

Carl  found  himself  alone  in  the  coach — if  such  it 
was — for  his  conductor  had  suddenly  and  most  unex- 
pectedly disappeared.  The  utter  extremity  of  fright, 
amazement,  and  perplexity,  is  too  feeble  a  term  to  con- 
vey anything  like  an  adequate  idea  of  the  state  of  Carl 
Koecker's  feelings,  when  thus,  after  such  an  astounding 
series  of  events,  hurried  away  no  one  knew  how,  why, 
or  whither. 

Visions  of  inquisitorial  horrors  flitted  before  his  per- 
turbed mind's  eye.  To  what  scenes  of  ghastly — of 
hopeless  misery  was  he  now,  perchance,  conveying? 
He  sunk  back  on  the  seat,  and  swooned.  How  long 
he  continued  insensible,  he  knew  not.  When  he  re- 
covered, he  found  himself  rattling  onward  at.  a  prodigious 
rate,  and  amid  profound  darkness:  he  stretched  his 
hand  out  of  the  window  of  the  vehicle,  and  the  snow 
fell  fast  and  thick  upon  it.  He  listened,  but  heard  no 
sound,  except  the  rapid  and  regular  tramp  of  horses' 
hoofs,  and  the  rustling  of  the  branches,  against  which 
the  roof  of  the  vehicle  brushed  in  passing.  He  could 
not  hear  the  voices  either  of  driver  or  attendants.  In 
a  sudden  fit  of  phrensy,  he  threw  down  one  of  the  win- 
dows, pushed  out  his  head,  and  roared  for  rescue — but 


THE    BRACELETS.  245 

his  cries  were  unattended  to.  He  then  strove  to  forco 
open  the  door,  that  he  might  leap  out,  though  at  the 
hazard  of  his  life  ;  but  his  utmost  efforts  were  useless  ! 
He  tried  if  the  window  spaces  were  large  enough  to 
admit  of  escape— but  they  were  too  small  to  admit  of 
a  child's  exit !  What  was  to  become  of  him  ?  After 
again  and  again  trying  to  force  open  the  doors,  he 
wearied  himself,  and  fell  at  full  length  on  the  seat, 
sullenly  resigned  to  his  fate,  under  the  conviction  that 
he  was  either  in  the  toils  of  the  Inquisition,  or  the 
hands  of  thieves  and  murderers.  But  what  could  the 
latter  want  with  a  poor  student  1  For  the  former  sus- 
picion his  quaking  heart  could  readily  assign  grounds  ! 

He  lay  in  a  state  of  stupor,  till  the  sudden  stoppage 
of  the  vehicle  almost  jerked  him  from  his  seat,  and  suf- 
ficiently roused  him  to  perceive  that  the  carriage  was 
standing  before  the  gates  of  a  magnificent  building. 
Where  he  was,  or  how  long  his  journey  had  lasted,  he 
knew  not ;  and  unutterable,  therefore,  was  his  astonish- 
ment to  behold  the  altered  aspect  of  nature.  The  time 
appeared  about  two  or  three  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
The  gloom  and  inclemency  of  the  former  part  of  the 
night  had  entirely  disappeared.  The  scenery,  at 
which  he  glanced  hastily,  seemed  of  a  totally  different 
class  from  that  which  he  had  been  accustomed  to  be- 
hold. The  glorious  gilding  of  the  full  moon  lay  on 
every  object — alike  on  the  snowy  shroud  glistening  over 
endless  plains  and  hills — as  on  the  quarried  clouds 
lying  piled  irregularly,  one  above  the  other,  in  snowy 
strata  along  the  sky.  Their  edges  seemed  all  melting 
into  golden  light. 

The  building  before  which  the  carriage  had  drawn 
up,  seemed  a  vast  gray  mass  of  irregular  structure,  the 
prevailing  character  of  which  was  Gothic.  WThether, 
however,  it  were  a  castle,  a  palace,  a  prison,  a  nunnery,  or 
a  monastery,  Carl's  hurried  glance  could  not  distinguish. 
He  had  scarce  time  to  scan  its  outline,  before  the  car- 
riage door  was  opened,  by  removing  a  large  bar  from 
across  the  outside,  Carl  noticed— and  a  string  of  at- 

21* 


346  THE    BRACELETS. 

tendants,  habited  somewhat  in  military  costume,  stood 
ready  to  conduct  the  solitary  visiter  to  the  interior  of 
the  building.  After  a  moment's  pause  of  stupiiied  ir- 
resolution— uncertain  whether  or  not  to  make  a  des- 
perate attempt  at  escape — he  alighted  and  followed  the 
chief  of  the  attendants  towards  the  interior  of  the 
building.  Every  step  he  took  within  the  splendid, 
though  antique  structure,  convinced  him  that  he  had 
entered  a  regal  residence.  He  paced  along  seemingly 
endless  galleries  and  corridors,  with  the  passive,  or 
rather  submissive  air  of  a  man  led  along  guarded  prison 
passages  to  execution.  He  was  at  length  ushered  into 
a  large  tapestried  apartment,  in  the  centre  of  which 
was  spread  a  supper  table,  sinking  beneath  a  costly 
service  of  gold  and  silver.  Scarce  knowing  whether 
or  not — in  the  vulgar  phrase — his  head  or  heels  were 
uppermost,  Carl  sat  himself  down  mechanically  at  the 
table  ;  and  the  obsequious  attendants  instantly  removed 
the  covers  of  several  dishes.  When  Carl  saw  the  ex- 
pensive dainties  spread  before  him,  and  the  magnificent 
plate  which  contained  them,  and  marked  the  solemn 
and  anxious  deference  paid  him  by  the  servants,  he 
felt  convinced  that  through  some  inexplicable  blunder, 
he  had  been  mistaken  for  an  expected  visiter  of  dis- 
tinction. The  tumultuous  and  terrifying  scenes  which 
had  ushered  in  his  journey,  were  for  a  while  obscured 
from  his  recollection.  Carl  found  it  impossible  to  par- 
take of  the  exquisite  fare  before  him.  He  contrived, 
however,  to  quaff  an  ample  cup  of  rich  wine,  which 
soon  revived  his  torpid  faculties.  He  turned  towards 
the  silent  servants,  stationed  at  due  distance  from  him, 
and  inquired,  in  a  stern  tone,  what  they  were  going  to 
do  with  him  ;  "  whether  they  know  who  he  was  ?"  A 
respectful  obeisance  was  the  only  answer.  "Carl  Ko- 
ecker — a  student  of  Goettingen  University."  A  second 
and  lower  bow.  A  third  time  he  repeated  his  question, 
but  the  only  answer  he  could  obtain,  was  a  brief  inti- 
mation, couched  in  the  most  deferential  terms,  that 
"her  highness"    was  waiting  his  appearance   in  the 


THE    BRACELETS.  247 

audience  room.     Carl  clasped  his  hands  over  his  fore- 
head, lost  in  wonder  and  despair. 

"  Who — who,  in  God's  name,  is  'her  highness?"' 
he  inquired. 

"  She  has  been  long  expecting  your  arrival  with 
anxiety,"  replied  one  of  the  servants,  apparently  in 
nowise  surprised  at  the  disorder  of  their  youthful  guest. 
"  Waiting — and  for  my  arrival  ?  Impossible  !  You 
are  all  wrong,  fellows!  I  am  not  he  whom  you  sup- 
pose me  !  I  am  mistaken  for  some  one  else — and  he 
must  be  nothing  particular,  seeing  I,  through  being 
mistaken  for  him,  was  kidnapped  away !  Harkee, 
sirrahs — do  you  understand'*'  The  servants  looked 
at  one  another  in  silence,  and  without  a  smile.  **  Do 
you  know  who  I  am  ?"  continued  Carl,  in  a  louder  key 
--but  in  vain  ;  he  received  no  answer.  The  servants 
seemed  to  have  been  tutored. 

"  Alas  !"  resumed  Carl,  in  a  low  tone,  "  I  ask  you 
who  I  am,  when  I  verily  know  not  myself!  Ah! 
— who  am  I  ? — where  ? — why  here  ?  Answer  ! — tell 
me  i — speak  there  !"  continued  Carl,  resolutely,  relying 
on  the  wine  he  had  taken,  and  which  he  felt  supplying 
him  with  confidence. 

«'  Once  more,  I  say — who  ami?"  repeated  Carl. 
"  That,  we  suppose,  your  highness  best  knows — but 
our  duty  is  to  wait  and  conduct  you  into  herhighness's 
presence,"  was  the  only  answer  he  received,  delivered 
in  the  same  steadfast  respectfulness  of  tone  and  manner. 
"  Where  will  all  this  mummery  end?"  thought  Carl, 
pouring  out,  mechanically,  another  cup  of  wine.  The 
thought  suddenly  struck  him,  and  the  more  he  enter- 
tained it,  the  more  probable  it  appeared — that,  after  all, 
the  whole  evening's  adventures  might  be  the  contrivance 
of  one  of  those  celebrated  and  systematic  hoaxers,  of 
whom,  in  Italy,  the  illustrious  Lorenzo  was  chief. 
Every  occurrence  of  the  evening  seemed  easily  ex- 
plicable upon  this  hypothesis  but  one — the  general 
uproar  in  the  streets  of  Goettingen  at  the  period  of  his 
leaving.     That  savoured  too  strongly  of  serious  reality 


248  THE  JBRACELETSi 

to  be  part  of  a  hoax !  While  he  was  turning  about 
these  thoughts  in  his  mind,  one  of  the  servants  opened 
a  door,  and  stood  by  it,  as  if  hinting  that  Carl  should 
rise  from  table  and  follow.  Resolved  patiently  to 
await  the  issue,  he  rose,  and  walked  towards  the  door. 
He  was  conducted  up  an  ample  staircase  leading  to  a 
lofty  hall,  supported  by  marble  pillars.  After  traversing 
it  in  silence,  his  conductors  opened  a  pair  of  large 
folding  doors,  and  ush€red  Carl  through  them — gently 
closed  the  high  doors  upon  him,  and  retired.  Carl 
now  found  himself  in  an  apartment  equally  magnificent 
with  the  one  he  bad  left.  Still,  however,  there  was 
not — as  in  the  other — artificial  light ;  but  the  room 
was,  so  to  speak,  flooded  with  a  radiant  tide  of  moon- 
light. Everything  about  him,  to  CarPs  disturbed  ap- 
prehensions, wore  an  air  of  mystery  and  romance. 
The  silence  of  the  sepulchre  was  there,  and  it  op- 
pressed him.  He  dared  hardly  draw  his  breath,  fear- 
ful of  its  being  audible.  He  was  reluctant  to  move 
from  the  spot  where  he  had  first  stood,  lest  he  should 
dissipate  the  nameless  charm  of  the  chamber,  or  en- 
counter some  unwelcome  and  startling  spectacle. 
Whichever  way  he  looked,  there  was  a  dim  and  dreary 
splendour  which  transcended  the  creatures  of  poety. 
Almost  the  whole  extent  of  the  farther  extremity  of  the 
chamber  consisted  of  a  large  Gothic-fashioned  window, 
with  a  door  in  the  centre  of  it,  opening  upon  a  narrow 
slip  of  shrubbery  or  terrace.  The  prospect  through 
this  window  was  glorious.     The  moon  was  still 

"  Riding  at  her  highest  »oon," 

like  a  bright  bark  over  a  sea  of  sapphire,  scattering  her 
splendour  over  streams  glittering  like  veins  of  silver 
amid  a  noble  extent  of  champaign  country ;  and  ren- 
dering visible,  in  the  distance,  hoary  structures  of  pro- 
digious extent,  relieved  against  a  background  of  pro- 
found forest  shade.  A  little  to  the  right  lay  a  lake  of 
liquid  silver !     But  the  most  marvellous  circumstance 


THE    BRACELETS.  249 

X)i  the  whole,  was  the  disappearance  of  the  snow  he 
had  so  lately  seen.  Was  it  possible — thought  Carl, 
pressing  his  hands  to  his  forehead — that  he  had  slept 
through  an  interval  of  twenty-four  hours  since  he  saw 
the  snow  ?  Had  he  taken  drugged  draughts  at  supper, 
and  but  now  awcke,  unconscious  of  the  interval  that 
had  elapsed  ?  This  extraordinary  absence  of  snow 
was,  as  already  said,  the  first  thing  observed  by  Carl, 
hurried  as  was  his  glance  ;  but  ere  long  a  very  different 
object,  within  the  chamber,  arrested  his  attention,  ab- 
sorbing every  faculty  in  mute  astonishment  and  admi- 
ration. At  the  upper  extremity  of  the  chamber  the 
resplendent  moonbeam  fell  on  the  figure  of  a  lady, 
white  as  snow,  reclining*  on  a  couch,  with  her  head 
supported  by  her  arm.  Never  before  had  Carl  beheld, 
even  in  dreams,  a  vision  of  such  dazzling  beauty.  So 
perfectly  symmetrical  her  features,  so  delicately  mould- 
ed her  figure,  so  gracefully  negligent  her  attitude,  and 
so  motionless  withal,  that  Carl,  as  he  glided  slowly  to- 
wards her,  his  eyes  and  hands  elevated  with  rapturous 
astonishment,  began  to  suspect  he  was  mocked  by  some 
surpassing  specimen  of  the  statuary's  art.  As  he  drew 
nearer,  he  perceived  that  the  lady  was  asleep — at  least 
her  head  drooped  a  little,  and  her  eyes  were  closed. 
He  stood  within  a  few  paces  of  her.  He  had  never 
before  seen  features  so  perfectly  beautiful.  Her  brow 
wore  the  pure  hue  of  alabaster ;  her  eyebrows  were 
most  delicately  pencilled  and  shaded  off;  her  nose,  of 
soft  Grecian  outline,  was  exquisitely  chiselled  ;  and  her 
small  closed  lips  seemed  like  a  bursting  rose  bud.  The 
lilied  fingers  of  the  little  hand  supporting  her  head, 
peeped  out  in  rich  contrast  from  among  her  black 
tresses  ;  while  her  right  hand  lay  concealed  beneath  the 
folds  of  a  long  rich  veil.  What  with  gazing  on  this 
lovely  recumbent,  and  the  generous  potency  of  the  wine 
he  had  been  drinking,  Carl  felt  himself,  as  it  were, 
under  a  new  influence.  Fear  and  doubt  had  passed 
away.  He  fell  softly  on  his  knees  before  the  beautiful 
incognita.     Her  features  moved  not. 


250  THE    BRACELETS. 

Now,  thought  Carl,  was  she  inanimate — a  cunning 
piece  of  waxwork,  and  were  the  contrivers  of  the  hoax, 
if  such  it  were,  watching  him  from  secret  parts  of  the 
room,  to  enjoy  his  doings  ? 

He  thought,  however,  after  steadfastly  eying  her, 
that  he  perceived  a  slow  heaving  of  the  bosom,  as 
though  she  strove  to  conceal  the  breath  she  drew.  In- 
toxicated with  his  feelings,  Carl  could  continue  silent 
no  longer. 

u  Oh,  lady,  if  mortal  you  be — oh,  lady,  I  die  at  your 
feet !"  stammered  Carl,  with  a  fluttering  heart. 

"  Carl,  where  have  you  been  ?  You  cannot — no, 
you  cannot  love  me,  or  you  would  not  have  delayed  so 
long !"  replied  the  lady,  in  a  gentle  tone,  and  with  a 
glance  "  fuller  of  speech  unto  the  heart  than  aught 
utterable  by  man."  What  dazzling  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  sinking  student ! 

"  [  would  to  Heaven,"  he  stammered,  u  I  might 
believe  you — loved  me  ;  but — but — lady — " 

44  But  what  ?  All,  Carl !  Do  you  doubt  me  ?"  in- 
quired the  lady,  gazing  at  him  with  an  eye  of  anxious 
tenderness.  Carl's  tongue  refused  him  utterance  for 
some  moments,  and  he  trembled  from  head  to  feet. 

"  How,  fair  one,  can  you  say  you  love  one  you  know 
not  ?     Me  you  know  not — " 

"Not  know  me!  Oh,  Carl,  Carl!"  and  she  looked 
at  him  with  a  reproachful  smile.  The  student  stared 
at  her  in  silence. 

"  Lady,  I  am  bewildered !  I  know  not  where  I  am, 
nor  how  I  came  hither !  Yes,  blessed  be  Heaven, 
that  I  have  thus  seen  you.  I  could  die  with  your 
image  in  my  eye  !  It  would  pass  me  to  heaven  !  Oh, 
forgive  me,  lady,  knowing  that  I  rave  !  Your  beauty 
maddens  me  !  I  sink — I  die  beneath  it !  I  know  not, 
nor  can  control,  what  my  tongue  utters  \  The  only 
thing  I  know  is,  that  I  am  unworthy  of  you — "  gasped 
Carl,  dropping  his  head  upon  his  bosom. 

"  Then,  Carl,  is  my  love  for  you  the  greater,  seeing 
it  can  overlook  all  unworthiness  !     But,  dear  Carl, 


THE    BRACELETS.  251 

why  speak  I  thus  ?     You  are  not  unworthy — no,  no  ! 
You  are  of  great  wit — graceful,  noble — in  a  word,  1— *" 

"  Speak,  lady !  speak,  speak  !  Delay  not !  I  faint 
— I  die  !"  murmured  the  impassioned  student. 

"  Well,  I  love  you,  Carl !  I  have  long  loved  you, 
since  first  my  eye  fell  on  you.  Pardon  the  scheme — " 
Here  the  lady  became  inarticulate  with  agitation.  A 
long  pause  of  mutual  trepidation  and  embarrassment 
ensued.  Each  cast  but  furtive  glances  at  the  other ; 
the  conscious  colour  went  and  came  alternately,  in  the 
cheeks  of  either. 

Carl,  still  bending  on  his  knee,  gently  strove  to  dis- 
entangle the  hand  which  lay  concealed  beneath  the 
folds  of  her  veil.  He  succeeded,  feeble  as  was  the 
force  he  used  ;  but  the  hand  was  still  enveloped  in  the 
folds  of  a  long  white  glove. 

"  May  I  not  kiss  these  fair  fingers  but  through  a 
glove  ?"  inquired  Carl,  fondly,  and  with  returning  self- 
possession. 

"  Why,  you  are  truly  of  a  sudden  grown  chivalrous 
as  an  old  knight,"  replied  the  lady,  in  a  tone  of  sub- 
dued gayety ;  "  but  since  such  is  your  ambitious  fancy, 
why  should  I  refuse  you  so  small  a  favour,  who  can 
refuse  you  nothing  ?  So,  here  is  my  right  hand,  sir 
knight.     What  wouldst  thou?" 

She  disengaged  the  hand  on  which  her  head  had 
been  leaning,  and  gave  it  to  Carl,  who  smothered  the 
taper  fingers  with  kisses.  Infatuated  with  sudden  un- 
accountable passion,  Carl,  in  a  sort  of  phrensy,  started 
from  his  knee,  threw^  his  arm  around  the  sylphlike 
figure  of  the  lady,  and  imprinted  a  long,  clinging,  half- 
returned  kiss  upon  her  soft  lips  ! 

He  had  neither  time  nor  inclination  to  reflect  on 
what  he  was  doing — on  the  unaccountable  freedom  of 
his  behaviour  to  a  lady  evidently  of  the  highest  consid- 
eration, with  whom  he  had  had — and  that  in  the  most 
unsatisfactory  and  mysterious  manner — only  a  few 
minutes'  acquaintance.  In  vain  did  he  strive  to  calm 
and  settle  his  unsteady  faculties,  or  sober  himself  into 


252  THE   BRACELETS. 

a  consciousness  of  his  real  situation — of  how  he  came 
thither — and  how  had  come  to  pass  the  astounding 
events  of  the  evening.  He  forgot  all  his  harrowing 
suspicions  of  inquisitorial  diablerie;  he  thought  no 
more  of  the  possibility  that  his  frantic  feats  were  the 
subject  of  suppressed  laughter  to  invisible  powers ! 
Everything  merged  into  his  intense  consciousness  of 
present  pleasure.  He  yielded  to  the  irresistible  im- 
pulse of  his  feelings,  blind  and  indifferent  to  conse- 
quences. 

"  'Tis  all  owing  to  the  wine  I  drank  in  the  supper 
room  V  thought  Carl ;  but,  alas,  how  little  did  he 
know  of  the  important  events  with  which  he  had  got 
extraordinarily  implicated  ;  of  the  principle  and  subtle 
influence  which  was  at  work  preparing  for  him  scenes 
of  future  change  and  suffering ! 

A  few  minutes'  time  beheld  Carl  pacing  slowly  up 
and  down  the  spacious  chamber,  supporting  his  beau- 
tiful and  mysterious  companion,  watching  with  ecstasy 
her  graceful  motions,  and  pouring  into  her  ear  the  im- 
passioned accents  of  love ;  not,  however,  without  an 
occasional  flightiness  of  manner,  which  he  could  neither 
check  nor  disguise.  When  he  listened  to  the  dulcet 
melody  of  her  voice,  which  fell  on  his  ear  like  the 
breathings  of  an  iEolian  harp ;  when  he  observed  her 
dovelike  eyes  fixed  fondly  upon  him;  and  felt  the 
faint  throbbings  of  her  heart  against  the  hand  that  sup- 
ported her,  he  almost  lost  all  consciousness  of  treading 
among  the  lower  realities  of  life. 

While  Carl  was  thus  delightfully  occupied,  his  com- 
panion suddenly  turned  aside  her  head,  and  to  Carl's 
amazement  and  alarm,  burst  into  a  flood  of  tear3. 
Burying  her  face  in  the  folds  of  her  veil,"  she  began  to 
weep  bitterly.  "  For  mercy's  sake,  dear  lady,  tell  me 
what  ails  you?"  inquired  the  startled  student,  He  re- 
peated his  question  ;  but  in  vain.  His  reiterated  ques- 
tions called  forth  no  other  answer  than  sobs  and  tears. 

"  Lady  !  dear,  beloved  lady,  why  are  you  bent  on 
breaking  my  heart  ?     Have  I  then  so  soon  grown  un- 


THE    BRACELETS.  253 

worthy  in  your  eyes  !"  again  inquired  Carl,  a  little 
relaxing  the  arm  that  supported  her,  as  though  grieved 
and  mortified  at  her  reserve. 

"  Oh,  Carl,  Carl !  Indeed  you  are  most  worthy  of 
my  love,  of  all  my  confidence  ;  but  you  cannot  help 
me  !  No,  no,  I  am  undone  !  Lost,  lost,  lost  for  ever !" 
replied  the  lady,  in  heart-breaking  accents. 

Carl  begged,  entreated,  implored,  to  be  made  ac- 
quainted with  the  cause  of  her  agitation,  but  in  vain. 
His  thoughts  (alas,  what  is  man?)  began  to  travel 
rapidly  from  "beauty  in  tears"  to  "beauty  in  sul- 
lens  ;"  and  commiseration  was  freezing  fast  into  some- 
thing like  anger,  or  rather  contempt. 

"  Lady,  if  you  think  me  thus  unworthy  to  share  your 
grief,  to  be  apprized  of  its  source,  that  so  I  may  ac- 
quit myself,  I — I — I  cannot  stay  to  see  you  in  suffer- 
ings I  may  not  alleviate  !  I  must — yes,  I  must  leave 
you,  lady,  if  it  even  break  my  heart !"  said  Carl,  with 
as  much  firmness  as  he  could  muster.  She  turned  to- 
wards him  an  eye  that  instantly  melted  away  all  his 
displeasure — a  soft  blue  eye  glistening  through  the 
dews  of  sorrow,  and  swooned  in  his  arms. 

Was  ever  mortal  so  situated  as  Carl,  at  that  agita- 
ting moment?  Inexpressibly  shocked,  he  bore  his 
lovely  but  insensible  burden  to  the  window;  and 
thinking  fresh  air  might  revive  her,  he  carried  her 
through  the  door,  which  opened  on  the  narrow  terrace 
as  before  mentioned.  While  supporting  her  in  his  arms, 
and  against  his  shaking  knees,  and  parting  her  luxu- 
riant hair  from  her  clamp  forehead,  he  unconsciously 
dropped  a  tear  upon  her  pallid  features.  She  revived. 
She  smiled  with  sad  sweetness  on  her  agitated  sup- 
porter, with  slowly  returning  consciousness,  and  passed 
her  soft  fingers  gently  over  his  forehead.  As  soon  as 
her  strength  returned,  Carl  led  her  gently  a  few  paces 
to  and  fro  on  the  terrace,  thinking  the  exercise  might 
fully  restore  her.  The  terrace  overlooked,  at  a  height 
of  about  sixty  feet,  an  extensive  and  beautifully  dis- 
posed garden  ;  and  both  Carl  and  his  mysterious  com- 

22 


254  .  THE    BRACELETS. 

panion  paused  a  few  moments  to  view  a  fountain  un- 
derneath, which  threw  out  its  clear  waters  in  the  moon- 
light, like  sparkling  showers  of  crystal.  How  tranquil 
and  beautiful  was  all  before  them !  -While  Carl's  eye 
was  passing  rapidly  over  the  various  objects  before 
him,  he  perceived  his  companion  suddenly  start.  Con- 
cern and  agitation  were  again  visible  in  her  features. 
She  seemed  on  the  point  of  bursting  a  second  time  in- 
to tears,  when  Carl,  once  more,  with  affectionate  ear- 
nestness, besought  her  to  keep  him  no  longer  in  tor- 
turing suspense,  but  acquaint  him  with  the  source  of 
her  sorrow. 

"  Lady,  once  more  I  implore  you  to  tell  me  whence 
all  this  agony  V*  She  eyed  him  steadfastly  and  mourn- 
fully, and  replied,  "  A  loss,  dear  Carl — a  fearful — an 
irreparable  loss." 

*'  In  the  name  of  mercy,  lady,  what  loss  can  merit 
such  dreadful  names  V  inquired  the  student,  shocked 
at  the  solemnity  of  her  manner,  and  the  ashy  hue  her 
countenance  had  assumed.  She  trembled,  and  con- 
tinued silent.  Carl's  eyes  were  more  eloquent  than 
his  lips.  Seeing  them  fixed  on  her  with  intense  curi- 
osity and  excitement,  she  proceeded  : — 

*'  It  is  a  loss,  Carl,  the  effects  of  which  scarce  befits 
mortal  lips  to  tell.  It  were  little  to  say,  that  unless  it 
be  recovered,  a  crowned  head  must  be  brought  low  !" 
She  shuddered  from  head  to  foot.  Carl's  blood  began 
to  trickle  coldly  through  his  veins,  and  he  stood  gazing 
at  his  companion  with  terrified  anxiety. 

"  Carl !"  continued  the  lady,  in  a  scarcely  audible 
murmur,  "  I  have  been  told  to-day — how  shall  I  breathe 
it ! — by  one  from  the  grave,  that  you  were  destined  to 
restore  to  me  what  I  have  lost — that  you  were  Heaven's 
chosen  instrument — that  you  alone,  of  other  men,  had 
rightly  studied  the  laws  of  spiritual  being — could  com- 
mand the  services  of  evil  spirits,"  she  continued,  fix- 
ing a  startling  glance  on  Carl,  who  quailed  under  it. 

"  Lady,  pardon  me  for  saying  it  is  false,  if  it  has 
been  so  slanderously  reported  to  you  of  me ;  ay,  false 


-    THE    BRACELETS.  255 

as  the  lips  of  Satan  !  I  know  naught  of  spirits — naught 
of  hereafter,  but  through  the  blessed  Bible,"  replied 
Carl,  in  hurried  accents,  a  cold  perspiration  suddenly- 
bedewing  him  from  head  to  foot.  His  feelings  began 
to  revolt — to  recoil  from  his  companion — whom  he 
could  not  help  suddenly  likening  to  the  beautiful  ser- 
pent that  beguiled  Eve ;  but  she  twined  her  arms 
closely  around  him,  and  almost  groaned  in  heart-moving 
accents,  ':  Oh,  Carl,  Carl !  that  I  might  but  tell  you 
what  I  have  heard  of  you,  or  rather  what  I  know  of 
you  !" 

There  had  been  something  very  terrible  in  her  de- 
meanour, latterly.  She  seemed  speaking  as  if  of  set 
purpose,  and  her  eye  was  ever  alive,  probing  Carl's 
soul  to  see  the  effect  of  what  she  uttered.  At  least  so 
Carl  thought.  All  his  apprehensions  about  the  hideous 
Inquisition  revived,  and  with  tenfold  force.  Was  this 
subtle  and  beautiful  being  one  of  their  creatures  I  A. 
fiend,  cunningly  tutored  to  extract  his  soul's  secret, 
and  then  betray  him  into  the  fiery  grasp  of  torture  and 
death ! 

It  was  long  before  he  could  speak  to  her.  At  length 
he  exclaimed,  "  For  mercy's  sake,  lady,  tell  me  what 
frightful  meaning  lurks  beneath  what  you  say !  What 
is  your  loss  ?  What  do  you  know,  or  have  heard  of 
me  !     Tell  me,  though  I  should  expire  with  terror !" 

"  Can  you  then  bear  a  secret  to  the  grave,  unspoken  ?" 
she  inquired,  gazing  at  him  with  an  expression  of  mel- 
ancholy and  mysterious  awe. 

"  Did  Thurialma  appear  again  .?" 
The  student  turned  ghastly  pale,  and  almost  dropped 
her  from  his  arms. 

"  I  know  not  what  your  words  mean/'  stammered 
Carl,  almost  swooning.  His  companion's  eye  was 
fixed  on  him  with  wellnigh  petrifying  effect. 

"  Carl,"  said  she,  in  a  low  tone,  4;  I  am  about  to  tell 
you  the  source  of  my  sorrows — that  is,  my  loss.  There 
is  none  near  to  overhear  us  f  she  inquired,  faintly, 
without  removing  her  eyes  from  Carl's. 


256  THE    BRACELETS. 

"  None  !  none  !"  murmured  the  student,  a  mist  cloud- 
ing his  eyes ;  for,  at  the  moment  of  his  companion's 
uttering  the  words  last  mentioned,  he  had  distinctly 
seen  a  human  face  peering  over  the  edge  of  the  terrace. 

He  shook  like  an  aspen  leaf,  shivering  under  the 
midnight  wind. 

"  What  have  you  lost  ?"  he  inquired. 

"  The  fellow  to  this,"  replied  the  lady,  drawing  off 
the  glove  from  her  left  hand,  and  disclosing  a  bracelet 
the  very  counterpart  of  that  in  Carl's  possession.  His 
brain  reeled  ;  he  felt  choked. 

"  What— what  of  him — that— hath  its  fellow  ?"  he 
faltered,  sinking  on  one  knee,  unable  to  sustain  the 
burden  of  his  companion. 

"  He  is  either  a  sorcerer,  a  prince,  or  a  murderer !" 
replied  the  lady,  in  a  hollow  broken  tone. 

Carl  slowly  bared  his  shaking  arm,  and  disclosed 
the  bracelet  gleaming  on  his  wrist.  He  felt  that  in 
another  moment  he  must  sink  senseless  to  the  earth ; 
but  the  lady,  after  glaring  at  the  bracelet,  with  a  half- 
suppressed  shriek,  and  an  expanding  eye  of  glassy- 
horror,  suddenly  sprung  from  him,  and  fell  headlong 
over  the  terrace,  at  the  very  eiige  of  which  they  had 
been  standing. 

"  Ha — accursed,  damned  traitor  !"  yelled  a  voice 
close  behind  him,  followed  by  a  peal  of  hideous  laugh- 
ter. He  turned  staggeringly  towards  the  quarter  from 
which  the  sounds  came,  and  beheld  the  old  man  who 
had  given  him  the  bracelet,  and  now  stood  close 
at  his  elbow,  glaring  at  him  with  the  eye  of  a  demon, 
his  hands  stretched  out,  his  fingers  curved  like  the 
cruel  claws  of  a  tiger,  and  his  feet  planted  in  the  earth 
as  if  with  convulsive  effort. 

"  Thrice  accursed  wretch  !"  repeated  the  old  man, 
in  a  voice  of  thunder;  "what  have  you  done?  Did 
not  her  highness  tell  you  who  you  were  !" 

«  Tell  me  '.—what  ?" 

The  old  man  suddenly  clasped  Carl  by  the  wrist 
covered  with  the  bracelet ;  his  features  dilated  with 


THE    BRACELETS.  257 

fiendish  fury  ;  his  eyes,  full  of  horrible  lustre,  glanced 
from  Carl  to  the  precipice,  and  from  the  precipice  to 
Carl. 

"  Tell  me  ! — what  ?"  again  gasped  the  student,  half 
dead  with  fright,  striving  in  vain  to  recede  from  the 
edge  of  the  terrace.  The  hand  with  which  the  old 
man  clasped  Carl's  wrist  quivered  with  fierce  emotion. 
"  Tell  me,"  once  more  murmured  Carl — "  what 
did  she  say  f 

"  Baa  !"  roared  his  tormentor,  at  the  same  time 
letting  go  Carl's  wrist,  and,  slipping  over  the  ed£e  of 
the  terrace,  he  was  out  of  sight  in  an  instant — leaving 
Carl  Koecker  broad  awake,  and  in  darkness,  for  he 
had  broken  his  lamp,  and  overthrown  both  chair  and 
table.  His  fire  had  gone  out  to  the  last  cinder,  and  a 
ray  or  two  of  misty  twilight,  struggling  through  the 
crevices  of  the  window  shutters,  served  to  show  him 
how  long  he  had  been  dreaming. 

He  groped  his  way  to  bed,  shivering  with  cold,  and 
execrating  the  opera  he  had  recently  witnessed,  whose 
ill-assorted  recollections,  with  other  passing  fancies, 
had  been  moulded  into  so  singular  and  distressing  a 
dream. 


END    OF    THE    BRACELETS. 


B   L   U   C    H    E    R; 

OB, 

THE  ADVENTURES 

07 

A     NEWFOUNDLAND     DOG. 

WRITTEN    BT    HIMSELF. 


I  shall  not  ask  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau, 
f  dogs  write  histories,  or  no. 

It  so  happened,  that,  once  upon  a  time,  a  New- 
foundland dog  was  pleased  to  take  it  into  his  head  to 
run  away  from  his  master,  where  he  had  ever  been 
kept  like  a  gentleman,  (according  to  his  own  confes- 
sion,) and  come  up  to  London,  to  seek  after  adventures. 
I  saw  him  in  his  glory.  He  was  a  noble  fellow  :  there 
was  something  imperial  in  the  wagging  of  his  bushy  tail ; 
and  his  eyes,  on  particular  occasions,  assumed  the  fire 
of  a  lion's.  He  was  well  combed  and  washed  twice  a 
week ;  and,  on  the  whole,  behaved  as  well  as  could  be 
expected  under  the  operations.  In  fact,  he  was  the 
best-bred  dog  that  ever  I  saw ;  and,  by  a  particular 
habit  he  had  got,  (which,  by-the-way,  I  would  heartily 
recommend  to  all  his  canine  relations,)  of  jumping  and 
frisking  about  the  mat,  so  as  to  clean  his  feet  well  be- 
fore he  entered  a  room,  he  won  the  especial  favour  of 
my  lady,  who  christened  him  by  the  name  of  "Blu- 
cher."  He  had  a  large  and  airy  kennel,  (built  against 
the  snug  side  of  the  yellow-walled  stable,)  painted  of  a 
decent  slate  colour,  which  was  carefully  replenished 


260  BLUCHER. 

with  straw  twice  a  day.  Nay,  on  one  side  there  was 
a  kind  of  trough  to  hold  his  water,  and  on  the  other  a 
platter  to  contain  his  victuals. 

Now,  although  he  lived  in  such  a  handsome  man- 
ner, he  was  not  satisfied.  The  fact  is,  that  a  gentle- 
man, (Sir  Leonard  Bull  whistle,)  on  a  visit  to  his  master, 
brought  a  fat,  pursy,  wheezing  animal  in  his  carriage, 
which  was  eventually  the  ruin  of  Blucher.  Our  friend 
eyed  the  stranger  askance  at  first,  and  drew  himself  up 
with  great  dignity,  wagging  his  tail  in  a  most  lofty  man- 
ner. But  "familiarity  begets  contempt."  Prowzer,(the 
stranger's  name,)  by  sundry  humble  acts,  such  as  fetch- 
ing Blucher  a  bone — leaving  the  trough  when  he  came 
to  drink — sleeping  next  the  outside,  (for  they  boarded 
and  lodged  together,)  and  various  other  unspeakable 
attentions,  quite  won  upon  the  generous  heart  of  the 
noble  animal.  I  am  very  much  inclined  to  think,  from 
all  accounts  I  have  been  able  to  obtain,  that  Blucher's 
knight-errantry  was  first  engendered  in  sundry  conver- 
sations with  his  new  friend ;  for  they  were  frequently 
remarked  to  run  away  together  to  a  wood  at  some  dis- 
tance, and  there,  under  the  shadow  of  a  beech  tree, 
doubtless  were  arranged  all  the  plans  of  Blucher's 
elopement.  The  innovations  arising  from  his  inter- 
course with  his  town-bred  friend,  first  manifested  them- 
selves in  a  certain  angry  impatience  on  washing  and 
combing  day ;  and  then  he  turned  up  his  nose  at  the 
wholesome  food  brought  him  one  morning  by  the  but- 
ler. The  magnificent  description  of  Prowzer  had 
clean  turned  his  head.  His  ambition  was  fired.  "It's 
no  use — I  must  see  life;  I  was  never  born  to  be  cooped 
up  in  this  narrow  box  all  my  days,"  were  the  reflec- 
tions with  which  he  suddenly  started  from  his  kennel, 
one  bright,  crisp,  cold,  frosty  March  morning,  ran  swift- 
ly down  the  park,  bounded  nimbly  over  the  gate,  and 
took  the  high  road  to  London.  His  journal  must  tell 
his  adventures. 


BLUCHER. 


CHAPTER    I. 


261 


Showing  that  Dogs  have  got  Souls  as  well  as  Men,  and  that  they 
know  what  is  best  for  themselves. 

March  the  13th,  1824.  This  morning  I  escaped 
from  Ashburd  Park.  I  don't  regret  it,  not  I.  I'll  show 
myself  a  dog  of  spirit.  I  ran  very  quickly  several 
miles,  when  the  thought  struck  me  that  I  should  have 
first  eaten  my  breakfast.  But  it  cannot  be  helped  now. 
I'm  not  going  to  sneak  back,  and  be  laughed  at  and 
ridiculed  by  my  dear  friend  Prowzer.  I'll  show  him 
that  country  dogs  have  resolution  as  well  as  your  sleek 
town  ones.  But  that  is  no  reason  why  I  should  not 
get  my  bellyful  of  victuals  as  soon  as  convenient.  Ha  ! 
there's  a  public  house  !  will  they  take  pity  on  me  T 
I'll  tell  them  I've  got  a  soul,  and  a  body  too,  as  well  as 
they,  and  that  I  need  support  for  both ;  but  will  only 
trouble  them  for  the  latter  at  present. 

I  have  been  to  the  Pig  and  Whistle  Inn,  as  it  is 
called.  There  was  an  Irish  labourer  there,  sitting  in 
the  taproom,  eating  bread  and  cheese  and  onions,  and 
drinking  porter.  So  I  walked  in,  and  stood  oppo- 
site to  him,  and  looked  pathetically  at  what  he  held 
in  his  right  hand  ;  I  wagged  my  tail ;  I  whined.  He 
understood  me.  "  Arrah,  my  honey !  but  the  dare 
cratur  seems  hungry ! — my  jewel !  and  won't  I  give 
you  some  praties  !  to  be  sure  1  will  I"  With  that  the 
kind-hearted  fellow  gave  me  a  plateful,  which  he  emp- 
tied from  a  coarse  canvass  bag.  I  ate  a  bellyful, 
though  it  was  nothing  to  be  compared  with  what  I 
got  at  home.  But  what  of  that?  as  my  friend  Prow- 
zer says,  1  am  an  independent  dog  now  ;  I  am  free  to 
buffet  with  the  world  as  I  best  may.  I  moistened  my 
breakfast  with  some — (I  am  sorry  to  say  it) — with 
some  ditch  water !  Faugh  !  As  I  heard  the  landlord 
say  that  the  London  coach  went  by  at  twelve  o'clock, 


262  BLUCIIER. 

and  it  was  now  ten,  I  resolved  to  go  leisurely  on  my  way 
till  it  caught  me.  However,  when  I  saw  the  flaring 
sun,  the  bright  though  barren  country,  and  the  merry 
passengers,  I  could  not  keep  on  in  such  a  heartless 
pace  ;  so  I  trotted  briskly  along,  forming  vast  schemes 
of  future  aggrandizement.  At  length  I  heard  the 
heavy  rumbling  of  the  Shamrock  coach  ;  it  soon  caught 
me,  and  we  kept  companions  for  many  a  long  mile. 
At  length  night  came  on,  cold,  dark,  and  cheerless. 
The  coach  and  I  stopped  at  Thatcham,  a  snug,  pretty, 
comfortable  inn.  I  went  into  the  kitchen  :  a  famous 
dish  of  ham  and  veal,  and  gravy,  and  bread,  was  set 
by  in  a  corner  for  the  hostler,  by  his  sweetheart  the 
cook.  She  was  as  red  as  could  well  be,  fuming  and 
fretting  over  a  sirloin  of  beef,  roasting  richly  before  a 
huge  roaring  fire.  I  ate  up  the  convenient  victuals  as 
quietly  and  expeditiously  as  possible.  I  had  then  no 
further  occasion  to  be  in  the  kitchen  ;  so,  thanking  the 
kind  servant  in  my  heart,  and  licking  my  chops  in  tes- 
timony of  my  appreciation  of  my  good  cheer,  I  walked 
leisurely  into  the  yard,  while  they  were  getting  ready 
the  second  coach.  I  stood  by,  and  no  one  saw  me,  for  I 
kept  away  from  the  little  red  twinkling  lanterns.  At 
length  the  man  had  occasion  to  go  into  the  stable,  and  left 
the  coach  door  open.  Was  ever  happiness  like  mine  ! 
I  had  found  a  capital  supper ;  and  here  a  bed  offered  it- 
self for  my  convenience.  I  was  always  a  dog  of  decisive 
character ;  so  I  bolted  into  the  coach  and  crept  under  the 
seat.  I  had  soon  the  unbarkable  satisfaction  of  hear- 
ing the  drowsy  coachman  come,  slam  the  door,  (they 
had  no  inside  passenger  except  myself,)  call  out  "  All's 
right,"  and  away  we  rattled,  in  such  a  delightful  fash- 
ion, as  sure  never  dog  rattled  before.  The  place  in 
which  I  slept  seemed  made  for  my  convenience ;  it 
was  half  full  of  nice,  clean,  sweet  hay,  and  as  warm  as 
my  heart  could  wish.     I  slept  soundly. 


BLUCHER.  263 

CHAPTER    II. 

A  singular  Adventure  ;  and  the  Termination  of  my  Journey. 

I  conjectured  it  to  be  five  o'clock,  when  I  was 
awaked  by  the  sudden  halting  of  the  coach.  What 
could  this  mean  1  Sure  we  had  not  yet  arrived  at  Lon- 
don !  I  almost  began  to  tremble  lest  some  ugly  acci- 
dent— a  dreamy  and  unconscious  barking  in  my  sleep, 
to  wit,  to  which  habit,  Prowzer  informed  me,  I  was  of- 
ten subject  at  Ashburd — had  betrayed  me.  So,  with 
a  bold  heart  I  issued  from  beneath  the  seat,  and  stood 
fronting  what  I  conjectured  to  be  the  door,  for  I  could 
not  see  in  the  darkness;  when  I  heard  this  dialogue: 
<;  Huoya,  coachee  !  hast  thee  ever  a  place  inside  o' 
thee  ?  Lud-a-mercy,  let's  in,  for  'tis  bitter  cold."  "Ay, 
the  coach  is  empty!  Jack,"  (to  the  guard,)  "  open  the 
coach  door  for  this  gentleman."  Open  the  coach  door ! 
my  heart  leaped  up  to  my  throat.  I  heard  the  guard 
.jump  heavily  from  the  wheel  on  to  the  ground,  open 
the  coach  door,  and  as  the  bumpkin  had  got  one  foot 
on  the  step,  I  leaped  clean  over  his  head,  carrying, 
however,  his  hat  in  my  course,  and  alighted  exactly  in 
a  prickly  hedge,  (for  it  seems  the  coach  had  turned  to 
one  side  for  the  passengers  convenience.)  I  could  not 
stir  from  my  situation,  lest  the  coachman's  whip,  an 
instrument  to  which  I  ever  had  an  insuperable  aversion, 
should  find  its  way  to  me  ;  so  I  remained  on  the  ten- 
ter branches  of  expectation.  It  was  a  ludicrous  scene. 
"Lud,  lud,  lud!"  exclaimed  the  affrighted  countryman, 
in  a  voice  fainter  and  fainter,  till  I  heard  him  fall  heav- 
ily along  the  road,  in  a  fit,  as  I  conjectured.  The 
guard,  notwithstanding  he  was  reckoned  a  very  valiant 
fellow,  tried  to  whistle  it  off;  but  it  was  of  no  use.  He 
had  felt  the  sulphur  of  his  Satanic  majesty,  (as  I  was 
told  he  informed  his  wife,)  and  seen  his  red  goggling 
eyes,  and  his  tail  a  yard  and  a  half  long,  having  a  sting 


264  BLUCHER. 

in  its  end.  Now,  for  mine  honour  I  must  here  be  al- 
lowed to  say,  that  mine  own  tail  is  not  above  two  feet 
in  length,  and  never  had,  or  will  have,  a  sting.  But 
this  is  a  digression.  The  coachman,  who  was  looking 
another  way,  had  seen  or  heard  nothing  of  these  super- 
natural horrors.  So  he  called  loudly,  "  Ho !  guard, 
where  art  gone  ?  Is  the  jontleinan  got  inside  V  "  Oh, 
coachee,"  was  the  faint  reply,  "I've  seen  a  thing — oh! 
I  don't  care  to  name  it ;"  and  he  sat  down  by  the  pros- 
trate and  insensible  form  of  the  countryman.  "  H — 
h — how  ! — why — why — what  sayst  thou  V  inquired 
coachee,  faltering  from  his  usual  bluff  voice,  while 
I  heard  the  reins  fall  slapping  on  the  backs  of  the 
horses.  ,  "Ho!  oh!  hoom! — how  the  d— 1  did  the  old 
enemy  get  inside  V  quivered  forth  the  affrighted  guard. 
But  the  morning  was  getting  gradually  lighter,  so  that 
I  could  not  remain  longer  in  the  hedge  with  any  hope 
of  concealment.  Determined,  therefore,  to  escape  as 
became  a  ghost,  or  something  worse,  I  gave  a  long, 
melancholy,  tremendous  howl,  and  bounded  at  once  in- 
to the  high  road,  scampering  off  as  swiftly  as  my  feet 
could  carry  me,  and  with  as  much  secrecy  as  my  quad- 
rupctantc  sonitu  allowed  me.  1  never  heard  to  this 
day  how  my  coach  friends  recovered  from  their  fright. 


CHAPTER    III. 

Containing  my  Reflections  on  entering  London. 

March  the  14th,  1824.  I  had  now,  as  I  once  heard 
a  beggarly  Irishman  tell  my  master,  to  "  pad  the  hoof" 
for  the  rest  of  my  journey  to  the  metropolis.  But  my 
night's  rest  and  an  excellent  supper  (my  lips  water 
now  when  I  think  of  it)  had  wonderfully  recruited  my 
health  and  spirits.  Although  the  morning  was  not 
precisely  such  as  I  could  have  wished,  being  chill  and 
foggy,  yet  I  remembered  my  high  resolve  ;  and,  more- 
over, that  I  had  bargained  to  gratify  my  curiosity  at 


BLtCHER.  265 

the  expense  Of  much  personal  convenience.  So  I  held 
on  my  journey  joyfully,  and  put  as  good  a  face  on  mat* 
t-ers  as  possible.  It  is  true  I  felt  inclined  at  divers 
times  to  be  snappish ;  but  I  reined  in  dogfully  my 
natural  impetuosity  of  temper.  I  often  thought  of  my 
sage  friend  and  adviser  Prowzer  ;  I  once  caught  my* 
self  so  far  tripping  as  heartily  to  wish  myself  snug  and 
warm  by  his  side  in  my  kennel.  But  doubtless  he  has 
cleared  up  my  character,  and  explained  my  motives  for 
my  present  course  to  the  powers  that  be  at  Ashburd ; 
for  I  abhor  anything  savouring  of  ingratitude. 

But  now,  to  return  to  my  journey,  the  increase  of  the 
passengers,  the  noise,  bustle,  and  frequent  passing  and 
repassing  of  London  coaches,  announced  my  arrival  at 
that  great  emporium  of  men  and  dogs.  My  heart  beat 
fast  when  at  length  I  saw  the  outline  of  the  turnpike 
gate  at  Hyde  Park  Corner,  indistinctly  defined  through 
the  foggy  air,  When  I  arrived  at  the  toll  bar,  and 
looked  on  the  fat,  red,  bottle-nosed  tollman,  and  saw 
him  Jeering  at  me  in  particular,  (I  must  here  digress  to 
state  that  the  Londoners  have  an  impertinent  talent  of 
staring  in  the  face  everybody  whom  they  meet.)  I  could 
not  help  laughing  inwardly,  though  I  took  care  to  hide 
it  from  him  by  assuming  as  demure  and  Quakerian  a 
countenance  as  was  in  my  power.  His  eye  was  fol- 
lowing me,  when  a  postboy  brought  him  a  glass  of 
brandy.  Oh,  the  liquorish  rapture  with  which  he 
transferred  his  optic  gaze  from  me  to  the  brown  spirit- 
ous  liquor  before  him. 

I  was  now  in  London ;  yet  I  don't  exactly  know  how 
to  analyze  my  feelings ;  for  I  sneaked  slowly  along, 
my  tail  pressed  humbly  between  my  legs  and  my  head 
inclined  downward.  Albeit,  I  fancied  that  everybody 
I  met  knew  me,  and  that  they  would  take  me  severely 
to  task  for  my  scurvy  trick ;  which  would  doubtless 
lead  to  a  result  which  I  could  never  stomach  :  that  is,  I 
should  be  sent  back  haltered  to  Ashburd*  Therefore 
whenever  I  saw  a  man  inclined  particularly  to  scru- 
tinize me,  I  ran  off  as  swiftly  as  I  could  ;  which  is 
M  23 


266  BLUCHEIt. 

" giving  him  the  go-by"  as  I  once  heard  a  man  in 
London,  one  Pierce  Egan,  call  it. 

My  mind  was  rilled  with  sublime  reflections  on  en- 
tering London.  Would  it  be  a  scene  of  happiness  or 
misery — of  degradation  or  exhaltation — of  shame  or 
glory  to  me  ?  Might  it  not  prove  to  me  "  the  death- 
bed of  ,hope  and  the  young  spirit's  grave  ?"  (as  my 
friend  Thomas  K.  Hervey,  an  intelligent  youngman,  and 
whom  I  initiated  into  the  art  of  writing  rural  sonnets, 
during  a  few  days'  stay  he  made  at  Ashburd,  says.) 
Perhaps  it  might ;  but  was  that  any  reason  why  I 
should  not  put  forth  all  my  energies  ?  None  whatever. 
"  The  town  was  all  before  me,  where  to  choose."  I 
was  determined  not  to  submit  to  the  drudgery  of  trade, 
for  I  had  been  bred  a  gentleman  dog  ;  and  resolved  to 
turn  my  attention  to  literature  and  politics,  having  no 
doubt  that  I  should  be  able  to  procure  a  handsome 
maintenance  ;  and  that  was  all  I  wanted.  Nor  let  me 
be  accused  of  narrow  selfish  feelings  here.  Bless  my 
heart !  are  not  dogs  to  get  their  living  as  well  as  the 
biped  variation  of  their  species  1  and  am  I,  for  instance, 
if  I  turn  my  attention  to  the  law,  to  be  hammering 
away  fine  epithets,  and  tinkling  alliterations,  and  re- 
sounding antitheses,  to  drowsy  judges  and  obtuse  ju- 
ries in  Westminister  Hall,  for  no  other  purpose  than  to 
lose  my  wind,  for  the  pleasure  of  going  home  to  starve  ? 
I  would  not  even  put  on  my  wig  under  one  guinea,  and 
a  refreshing  fee.  Doubtless  these  were  all  very  fine 
reflections ;  but  what  I  wanted  at  present,  was  to  find 
animal  subsistence. 


CHAPTER   IT. 

Showing  that  a  hearty  Meal  is  a  most  desirable  Thing ;  but  how  to 
get  it  is  the  Question;  with  my  Adventures  in  search  of  one. 

After  a  long  perambulation  up  and  down  Piccadilly, 
I  struck  into  Pall  Mall,  in  order  to  feast  my  eyes  with 
a  sight  of  Carlton  Palace  ;  for  I  had  always  cherished 


BUTCHER.  267 

a  love  of  architectural  magnificence  ;  and  had  my  ci- 
devant  master  but  formed  as  high   an  opinion  of  my 
abilities  that  way  as  I  had  myself,  I  would  have  made 
my  kennel  a  model  of  elegance  and  stability.     But  to 
return.     From  Waterloo  Place,  Carlton  Palace  looked 
like  a  long  spelling  book,  supported,  as  a  roof,  by  a 
number  of  old  tobacco  pipes,  like  I  have  often  seen  my 
master's  children  do.      There  were  four  men  with  red 
jackets,  standing  bolt  upright  in  little  boxes,  with  guns 
bv  their  sides.    I  apprehend  they  were  merely  stationed 
there  to  shoot  any  stray  crows  which  might  presume  to 
nestle  on  the  imperial  roof.      Having  quite  satiated  my 
eyes,  at  the  expense  of  my  belly,  (which  gave  frequent 
and  manifest  tokens  of  deplorable  emptiness,)  I  jogged 
slowly  along  Pall  Mall,  and  commenced  a  walk  up  the 
Strand.     My  heart  ached  within  me,  to  see  how  in- 
significant a  figure  I  cut,  while  '.'  wearily  wending  my 
way"  up  this  vast  thoroughfare.     It  is  true,  I  strove  to 
put  a  good  face  on  the  matter,  and  walked  as  slowly 
and  deliberately,  and  silent  and  stately,  as  I  could  ;   but 
when  I  saw,  every  now  and  then,   an  open   carriage 
go  by,  with  a  sleek,  fat,  goggling  mongrel,  with  an  em- 
broidered collar  round  his  stumpy  neck,  and  reclining 
daintily  on  beautiful  women's  laps,  then,  burst  my  dog- 
ly  heart;  and  'tween  my  hind  legs  curling  up  my  tail, 
great  Blucher  sneaked  indignantly  along.     But  my  ire- 
ful feelings  did  not  form  an  oblivious  antidote  to  my 
hunger. 

At  length,  when  I  had  twice  gone  up  and  down  be- 
tween Charing  Cross  and  St.  Pauls  churchyard,  on 
anxious  lookout  for  food  of  any  kind,  I  came  to  a  de- 
cent "  ham  shop  and  eating  house."  I  stood  some  mo- 
ments looking  wistfully  at  the  window,  wherein  were 
displayed  long  rows  of  polonies,  black  puddings,  sau- 
sages, roast,  cold,  boiled,  hot  meat,  &c.,  in  such  a 
tempting  manner,  that  my  mouth  began  to  water,  and 
the  mere  contemplation  of  such  dainties  made  me  lick 
my  hungry  chops.  I  edged  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
window;   there  was  nobody  there  that  I  could  see 

m2 


268  BLUCHER. 

Why  need  I  make  many  words  about  it  1  I  dashed 
through  the  window  pane — plunged  my  nose  into  a 
quartetto  of  black  puddings — and  scampered  off  with 
them  as  fast  as  possible.  I  soon  found  a  blind  alley  ; 
there  I  ate  my  delicious  fare  at  my  leisure  ;  nor  did  I 
once  think  of  my  comfortable  trough  and  platter  at 
home.  But  these  were  soon  demonstrated ;  and  1 
thought  I  would  retrogade  a  little,  for  the  purpose  of 
seeing  what  else  might  be  got  from  the  eating  house. 
Alas  !  I  had  no  sooner  shown  my  head,  than  1  was 
wheedled  into  the  shop,  a  rope  thrown  round  my  neck, 
and  I  was  led  to  the  door.  There  the  angry  owner  of 
the  shop  opened  out  such  a  clamour  as  was  quite  won- 
derful ;  but  that  did  not  prevent  my  feasting  on  some 
ready  cut  ham,  while  the  man  was  earnestly  harangu- 
ing the  mob.  Wtien  I  had  done,  1  wiped  my  mouth  on 
his  apron,  and  listened  to  him,  l<  Well,  is  there  ne'er 
a  jontleman  owns  this  'ere  woracious,  thievish  dog  ? 
It's  werry  strange,  I  must  say  ;  for  though  he's  a  bad, 
yet  he's  a  good-looking  fellow :  so  I  shall  keep  him  in 
this  'ere  shop,  an'  adwertise  him,  an'  give  him  his  bel- 
lyful of  wittals."  With  that  the  crowd  dispersed,  and 
I  was  taken  behind  the  counter,  and  fed  with  all  man- 
ner of  choice  things,  ready  to  bursting.  Mr.  Bubble- 
squeak  (my  hospitable  entertainer's  name)  was  just 
patting  my  back,  when  a  tall,  swaggering,  jockey-look- 
ing fellow  came  into  the  shop,  and,  to  my  utter  amaze- 
ment, said  he  had  come  to  claim  his  dog.  I  was  near 
fainting ;  for  I  suspected  that  my  master  had  sent  up  a 
man  who  had  tracked  my  course.  M  What  may  his 
name  be  !"  inquired  my  shrewd  host.  With  ready  and 
unblushing  effrontery  he  replied,  "Lion."  Hereat  I 
gave  a  loud  and  sudden  bark  of  anger  and  vexation. 
"  You  see  he  knows  me,"  answered  the  wily  fellow, 
"  but  the  fact  is,  he's  ashamed  to  look  me  in  the  face, 
'pon  honour.  We  had  a  brush  this  morning,  and  he 
ran  away."  The  purveyor  of  sausages  was  quite  con- 
founded. M  What  am  I  to  pay  you  1"  "  Ho  !  ahem — 
four  puddings,  one  shilling ;  window,  two  and  sixpence ; 


BLTJCHER.  269 

breakfast,  one  shilling  ;  keeping,  two  shillings — six 
and  sixpence,  sir."  "  Egad  !  'tis  a  deuced  extortion  ; 
however,  I'll  pay  you  seven  shillings,  and  you  must 
give  me  the  rope.  He  may  run  away  again."  The 
money  was  given — the  cord  put  into  his  hand — but  I 
barked  and  struggled  dogfully,  l'or  he  was  evidently  a 
scoundrel.  However,  - 1  was  compelled  to  follow, 
chiefly  out  of  respect  to  a  large  whip  which  he  often 
brandished  over  my  back,  in  terrorem.  We  went  at  an 
orderly  pace  down  the  street,  when  a  slight  mischance 
happened  to  my  master.  "  At  it  again,  Master  Hop- 
the-twig  1     How  long  is't    since  you    left  Newgate  ? 

Stealing  dogs  again,  by !"   were  the  words  with 

which  a  burly  officer,  who  had  been  watching  him, 
clapped  him  on  the  shoulder,  thrust  a  pair  of  handcuffs 
over  his  wrists,  and  we  were  both  led  away  in  state  to 
street  office. 


CHAPTER    V. 

I  am  dragged  along  the  Streets  as  a  Malefactor  :  I  am  examined  before 
a  Magistrate  in  Bow-street ;  of  which  an  account  is  given. 

Accompanied  by  my  soi-disant  owner,  who  paddled 
along  in  a  very  sheepish  tristful  mood,  hardly  daring 
to  cast  a  side  glance  on  me,  who  ambled  ruefully  on 
my  way,  attached  to  the  officer's  huge  fist  by  a  halter, 
I  soon  found  myself  walking  down  St.  Martin's  lane. 
The  unlucky  dog-fancier  (for  that  is  the  name  I  per- 
ceiye  they  go  by)  several  times  endeavoured  to  coax 
his  Cerberus  guide  into  conversation ;  but  in  vain. 
His  sour  visage  was  screwed  up  into  the  pleasing  re- 
semblance of  a  pair  of  nutcrackers. 

"  I  say,  Mister  Officer,  vhere  are  vee  going  to — to 
the  vachhouse  V* 

"  You'e  going  where  you'll  be  well  watched,  master, 
I'll  warrant  you." 

"  Mv  hands  are  werry  tight,  sir  ;  could  you  loosen 
23* 


270  BLUCHER. 

these  handcuffs  a  little  V — and  he  cast  his  longing  eye 
on  a  blind  alley  a  little  forward  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  way. 

"  None  of  your  gammon,  ye  thief,  ye  !  Loosen  your 
handcuffs  !  Gemini  !  I'd  sooner  see  ye  hang'd  first — 
as  I  hope,  please  God,  to  see  ye,  after  the  next  Old 
Bailey  sessions." 

"  Dear  !  oh,  Mister  Officer  !  how  can  you  be  so  hard 
hearted?"  "All's  one  for  that,  old  boy,  you're  safe 
now ;  and  it's  not  my  fault  if  you  arn't  so  as  long  as 
you're  in  my  care.  On — quicker,  or  I'll  tighten  your 
handcuffs." 

"  Gemini !  they're  tight  enough  already,  in  all  con- 
science." 

"  On,  ye  blackguard — on !  You  talk  of  conscience  I 
— ha.  ha,  ha  !"  and  he  hurried  quicker,  for  a  consider- 
able mob  had  congregated  around  us,  trotting  all  our 
way.  My  nose  felt  quite  hot  with  shame  and  vexa- 
tion. What  a  precious  commencement  of  my  London 
adventures  !  I  shrunk  involuntarily  from  sundry  kind 
pats  and  caresses  bestowed  by  the  mob ;  1  felt  they 
esteemed  me  a  criminal !  In  the  bitterness  of  my  heart 
I  once  leaped  to  the  full  extent  of  the  halter ;  the  sud- 
den jerk  I  occasioned  to  the  hand  of  the  officer,  pro- 
duced such  a  kick  on  my  posteriors  as  I  remember  to 
this  day  ;  so  I  was  fain  to  bear  my  "  durance  vile"  with 
as  good  an  air  of  submission  as  possible.  I  still,  how- 
ever, attempted  to  bite  off  the  rope,  and  comforted  my- 
self with  the  fable  of  the  mouse  nibbling  away  a  large 
cable :  I  might  as  well  have  tried  to  leap  through  a 
stone  wall. 

At  length  we  arrived  at  the  police  office.  A  few  ill- 
looking  people  were  loitering  near  the  door,  as  if  wait- 
ing for  the  trial  of  some  of  their  comrades.  Our  con- 
ductor and  his  train  soon  made  their  way  through  a 
long,  dark,  narrow  passage,  and  on  knocking  at  a  door, 
entered  the  room  where  the  trials  were  going  on. 
After  a  considerable  time  spent  in  trembling  anxiety,  (I 
heard  my  heart  go  pit-a-pat,)  our  turn  came.     M  Well," 


BLUCHER.  271 

said  his  worship,  putting  on  his  spectacles,  which  he 
had  been  wiping  on  the  corner  of  an  Indian  handker- 
chief— "  well,  Mr.  V ,  and  what  have  we  here  ?' 

'*  An  it  like  your  worship,"  answered  he,  stroking 
back  his  hair,  hemming,  and  chucking  me  right  full 
into  the  awful  presence  of  the  magistrate,  "  this  here 
man,  (pointing  to  the  shivering  culprit.)  who  is  a  well- 
known  thief — one  of  your  dog-fanciers,  your  worship 
— seeing  Mr.  Bubblesqueak,  the  cook,  in  the  Strand, 
come  to  his  door,  holding  a  dog  by  this  here  halter,  and 
hearing  him  inquire  whose  it  might  be,  stops  very 
quietly  till  the  people  was  all  gone,  your  worship — " 

"  Ay,  ay,  I  suppose  so.  Go  on — that  is  not  mate- 
rial," said  the  magistrate,  hastily. 

"|Well,  your  worship,  what  does  my  gentleman  do 
— I  was  watching  him  all  the  time — but  take  himself 
into  the  shop,  and  say  the  dog  was  his,  your  worship ! 
So  I  waited  outside,  and  saw  him  come  out  presently, 
holding  this  here  dog  by  this  here  halter,  your  worship  ; 
so  I  makes  me  no  more  to  do,  but  claps  my  gentleman 
on  the  handcuffs — " 

"  In  fact,  here  he  is,  that's  very  plain  ;  no  matter  how. 
Now,  what  have  you  to  answer  to  all  this  V  addressing 
the  prisoner,  who  was  quite  chopfallen. 

"  Please  your  vorship,  there's  ne'er  a  man  in  this 
'varsal  world  that's  more  honester  than  myself,  so  please 
your  vorship" — here  the  officer  turned  round  to  the 
strangers,  and  leered — "  and — and — but  it's  no  use," 
he  added,  suddenly,  "  to  say  anything  here,  as  it's 
werry  likely  your  vorship  will  send  me  off  to  Newgate  ; 
so  I  shall  keep  what  I  have  to  say  till  then,  please 
your  vorship."  Among  experienced  thieves,  this  avow- 
al is  looked  on  as  a  tacit  confession  of  guilt.  The 
magistrate  fully  committed  him  to  Newgate,  and  he  was 
taken  from  the  room. 

"  D'ye  not  know  whom  this  dog  belongs  to,  Mr.. 
Officer  ?"  inquired  the  magistrate,  wreathing  his  hand 
in  his  whiskers. 

11  No,  your  worship,  I  never  seed  the  dog  before      No 


272  BLUCHER.  % 

one  knew  whose  he  was — for  he  came  and  broke  open 
the  shop  window,  your  worship,  and  (here  I  bowed  my 
head  between  my  fore  legs)  stole  four  black  puddings, 
your  worship !" 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! — a  cunning  felon ! — ha,  ha,  ha !  This 
is  beyond  all  I  ever  saw !  What  in  the  name  of  won- 
der shall  we  do  with  him?  And  what  became  of  the 
black  puddings,  eh  ?" 

"  Eat  'em,  your  worship,"  replied  the  officer,  licking 
his  lips. 

"  Why,  ecod !  I  never  heard  anything  like  this  be- 
fore.    Did  you  see  all  this,  sir?" 

"No,  your  worship  ;  but  I  heard  Mr.  Bubblesqueak 
tell  the  people  as  much." 

"  And  no  one  came  forward  to  own  the  dog  ?" 

"None  but  he  your  worship  has  just  committed." 

"  Sure  it  wasn't  his  own  ?"  inquired  the  magistrate, 
winking  sagaciously. 

"  Please  your  worship,  he's  the  greatest  dogstealer 
on  the  town !  His  own  ? — it's  his  own  by  theft,  if  it 
is  at  all." 

"  Then,  shoot  me,  if  I  know  what  to  do." 

"  No  more  do  I,  i'fackins,"  replied  a  fat  brother  on 
the  bench. 

11  Would  your  worship  advertise  him  ?"  inquired  the 
officer. 

"  Ay,  ay,  that  will  be  the  thing.  Mr.  McScribble, 
(the  office  clerk,)  draw  up  an  advertisement  of  this 
dog,  and  give  a  description  of  it."  Then  addressing  a 
turnkey,  "  In  the  mean  while,  Tom,  you  keep  him  here, 
seed  him  well,  and  show  him  to  all  comers,  till  you 
hear  again  from  me.  Now,  what  comes  next?"  In 
the  mean  time,  I  was  made  to  leap  on  a  bench  before 
the  clerk,  and  show  myself,  that  he  might  take  accurate 
note.     This  was  the  advertisement  he  drew  up  : 

"Whereas,  on  March  15,  1825,  a  Newfoundland 
dog  was  brought  by  an  officer  of  the  establishment  to 
Bow-street,  unowned  ;  this  is  to  give  notice,  that  the 
owner,  if  any  such  there  be,  may  again  obtain  posses- 


BLUCHER.  273 


sion  of  the  same,  by  applying  before  the  22d  of  this 
month,  and  paying  all  expenses  of  keep  and  advertise- 
ment." Then  followed  a  long  and  flourishing  descrip- 
tion of  my  person, 


CHAPTER    VI. 

I  find  myself  in  very  curious  Quarters. — My  Spirits  are  very  low. — A 
Description  of  my  Companions. 

After  Mr.  McScribble  had  done,  he  nodded  to  a 
Bow-street  minion,  who,  understanding  the  signal, 
moved  off  with  me.  I  walked  after  him  in  mortified 
silence.  He  led  the  way  to  some  backward  rooms; 
and  after  opening  a  broad  iron-bound  door,  we  entered 
a  large  chamber,  in  the  farther  end  of  which,  in  a  huge 
grate,  was  crackling  and  blazing  an  enormous  fire. 
There  were  two  windows  on  the  sides  of  the  room ; 
one  looked  on  a  high  dead  wall,  and  the  other  on  a  yard 
where  three  old  women  were  washing.  Opposite,  and 
on  each  side,  of  the  fireplace,  were  placed  three  forms; 
I  crept  under  these,  and  stretched  my  wearied  frame  in 
the  centre.  I  was  here  surrounded  by  a  motley  group. 
Several  tall  stout  men  sat  around,  evidently  police  of- 
ficers, intermingled  with  many  country-looking  people 
— withered  old  crones  and  giggling  young  maidens — 
substantial  farmers  and  cozy  London  citizens.  A  few, 
from  time  to  time,  engaged  in  conversation. 

"  Mayhap  you  are  here  on  the  same  errand  as  we 
is  V  said  a  fat,  pursy,  jolly  Londoner,  half  choked  with 
fat,  with  little,  gray,  twinkling  eyes,  seeming  buried  in 
their  sockets — his  two  fists  thrust,  John-Bull-like,  into 
his  waistcoat  pockets — addressing  a  tall,  lank,  spectre- 
looking  man,  enwrapped  in  a  slender,  well-darned, 
olive-coloured  top  coat,  his  cheeks  sucked  in  as  though 
with  famine,  and  his  hungry  eyes  fixed  ravenously  on 
a  piece  of  mutton  pasty  which  a  woman  opposite  was 
eating  con  amove. 


274  BLUCHER. 

"  Mayhap  you  be  here  of  the  same  errand  as  we  is 
— to  be  witnesses  /"' 

"  I  come,  sir,  from  that  noble  Parnassian  summit,  a 
— a — in  common  words,  sir,  I  come  from  an  attic  in 
G — g — rub-street,  where,  next  the  aerial  sky,  I  imbibe 
ethereal  inspirations,  and  run  riot  in  the  wild  and  fan- 
ciful exuberance  of  a  rich  and  cultivated  imagination." 

l*  Eh — ha — hum  !  learned  lingo,  all  that !  Pray, 
what  may  it  all  mean,  sir?"  winking  hard  at  those 
next  him. 

"I,  sir,  am  an  author — a  poet  — a  philologist !"  re- 
plied he  of  the  threadbare  coat,  drawing  up  his  lean 
person  with  great  dignity. 

"  Lack-a-day,  sir !"  wheezed  a  fat  matron,  "fVy- 
olodgy !  Rimini !  what  may  that  mean  ?  In  this  'varsal 
world  I  never  heerd  o'  such  a  thing." 

*'  I'm  laith  to  say,  mem,"  replied  a  sharp,  gray-eyed 
Scotchman,  who  had  been  peering  in  silence  around 
him,  "  that  ye  ken  naethin'  at  all  aboot  it,  mem.  Phce- 
lology,  mem — ahem  !" 

"  Marry  come  up,  sir  !  and  who  may  you  be  as  dares 
to  contradict  me?" 

"I  daur  to  contradeect  any  one,  mem  ;  Pse  na  mair 
afraid  o*  ye  than  o'  the  dog  i'  the  centre,  mem — (mean- 
ing myself) — an'  it's  amaist  true  an'  parteeclar  fac',  that 
ye  still  ken  naethin'  aboot  pheelology,  whilk  is  a  de- 
veene  science  /  ha'  spent  twal'  years  in  learning, 
mem." 

11 1'fackins,  an'  ye  might  ha'  spent  your  time  much 
better,  Pm  thinking." 

"And  dootless  mickle  waur,  mem.  It's  na*  just 
geeven  to  siccan  folk  like  ye,  mem,  to  conrpreherf  sic 
things.  It's  clean  past  ye're  mark,  mem.  The  common 
folk  in  Englan',  mem,  are  aye  an  unlearned  people, 
unlike  to  the  canny  Scotch." 

"  And  who  may  you  be,  sir,  that  dares  to  libel  we 
English  ?"  inquired  the  first  speaker — the  fat  Londoner 
- — bristling  with  anger. 

"  Ma  certie,  man  !  ye're  far  owerhet,  and  I'm  boun' 


BLYCHER.  275 

to  tell  ye,  sir,  it's  naethin'  at  all  to  you,  xcho  I  am."  A 
stout  farmer,  next  the  spectral  poet,  was  seen  fumbling 
about  his  oaken  plant,  and  was  heard  muttering  some- 
thing about  "  beggarly  Scotchmen,"  when  the  Caledo- 
nian mildly  inquired  of  his  friend  the  philologist — a 
term,  whose  assumption  had  provoked  all  this  dispute, 
*'  May  I  take  the  liberty,  my  especial  friend,  to  in- 
quire what  has  brought  ye  here  ?"  "  Ah,  my  dear 
friend — a  loss  ! — a  deep,  woful,  unutterably  dreadful 
loss  !"  The  company  stared  with  wide-opened  eyes 
on  the  speaker,  amazed  at  this  appalling  exordium. 
Then  hurried  whispers  ran  round — dating  the  sum  at 
one — two — -four1— six — ten  thousand  pounds  ;  and  they 
commiserated  the  unfortunate  gentleman,  who  broke  a 
dead  silence,  by  explaining — 

u  The  labour  of  ten  years,  my  dear  sir !  It  was 
wrought  amid  pain,  sickness,  and  sorrow.  It  was  my 
solace  in  all  my  vexations.  It  was  my  jewel,  my 
priceless  jewel,  in  all  my  p — p — overty  !  It  was  my 
fair  bright  star,  beaming  through  all  the  murkiness  of 
want  and  affliction !  It  was  my  beacon  to  fame,  hon- 
our, and  emolument.  It  would  have  made  me  repara- 
tion for  all  my  sufferings  !" 

"  I  canna,  for  the  life  o'  me,  conceeve  what  it  ma' 
ha'  been,"  said  the  Scotchman,  quite  puzzled,  as  I 
thought,  at  this  piteous  enumeration.  "Dootless  it 
was  a  maist  sair  misfortune,  but  what  can  it  ha'  been  1 
— a  feelosopheecal  treatise,  perhaps — an  erudite  work 
on  the  mathematics — a  key  to  algebraic — " 

"  Good  and  wise  things  in  their  way,  I  question  not," 
said  the  disconsolate  spectre,  "but  all  nothing — no- 
thing in  comparison  of  the  great  work  I  have  lost !" 

"  Ma  certie  !"  ejaculated  the  astounded  Scotchman, 
turning  his  eyes  and  hands  upward,  "  what  can  it  ha' 
been?" 

"  Oh,  kind  sir,  hear  what   it  was — The  Battle  of 
Bunker  Hill,  a  poem  of  forty-nine  cantos." 

"  Whew — whew  !"  whistled  the  Scotchman,  M  I  can- 


276  BLUCHER. 

na  but  think  ye  need  not  ha'  valued  it  at  siccan  a  fearfu' 
rate.     A  wee  bit  o'  poetry  ! — whew  and  whoo  !" 

11  Fhat  may  pe  ta  name  o  her  poem  ?  will  ta  shen-^ 
tleman  say  fhat  is  her  name  again  V  inquired  a  little 
gorbellied  Welshman,  with  both  hands  crossed  on  a 
parcel  wrapped  up  in  a  dingy  yellow  cotton  handker- 
chief, resting  on  his  lap. 

44  The  Battle  of  Bunker  Hill,  sir ;  and  I  am  come 
here  to  solicit  the  advice  of  the  magistrate  how  to  re* 
cover  it." 

44  Heugh  !  heugh  !"  answered  the  Welshman,  quick- 
ly untying  the  parcel.  It  proved  to  be  a  thick,  quarto- 
paged,  closely  written  volume,  with  stiff  blue  paper 
backs.  He  pushed  aside  the  fly  leaf,  and  peering  on 
the  title  page,  read  aloud,  "  The  Battle  of  Bunker 
Hill  ;  an  Heroic  Poem,  in  49  Cantos,  by  Pigwhistle 
Dronepipe,  Esquire." 

The  instant  that  the  spectre  heard  the  annunciation 
uttered,  in  a  strong  Welsh  accent,  he  leaped  over  to 
where  the  possessor  of  his  treasure  sat,  almost  scream- 
ing with  rapture. 

11  Glory  !  glory  !  thanks  ! — oh,  how  can  I  thank  ye  ? 
Honour  and  distinction  are  now  open ! — sweet,  pre1 
cious,  inestimable  treasure !"  and  he  hugged  it  in 
ecstasy,  44  how  often  has  my  brain  reeled  while  tracing 
thy  scenes  by  the  dull  flickering  rushlight  at  midnight ! 
Star  of  my  recovered  hope  ! — jewel  of  my  brighten- 
ing fortunes  ! — I  kiss  thee  !  Oh  for  words  ! — -words  ! 
— I  cannot  speak  my  thanks  !  And  what  shall  I  pay 
thee,  honest  sir?"  and  he  put  his  hand  into  an — empty 
pocket. 

44  She  fhil  tak  nothing  fhatefer  ! — no,  tat  she  won't ! 
She  found  it  only  yesterday,  as  she  was  falking  along 
Barbican,  about  dusk." 

44 Well  done,  Taffy!  Well  done,  Taffy!  A  true 
Welshman  !"  echoed  gladly  round  the  room,  with  many 
other  shouts  of  approbation  and  expressions  of  sym- 
pathy ;  in  the  deafening  din  of  which  I  fell  fast  asleep, 
as  warm  and  snug  as  my  heart  could  wish. 


BLUCHER.  277 


CHAPTER    VII. 

I  am  retained  in  ignominious  Bondage,  and  exposed  to  the  rude 
Examination  of  Strangers. 

March  16th,  1824.  When  I  awoke  I  was  surprised 
to  find  myself  alone,  and  in  comparative  darkness.  I 
lay  easily  stretched  before  a  few  ruddy  cinders,  in 
place  of  the  huge  roaring  coal  fire  at  which  I  fell  asleep. 
The  room  was  untenanted,  except  by  mine  own  self. 
A  few  lumbering  forms  were  around  me  ;  and  from  two 
diamond-shaped  holes  in  the  high  window  shutters 
against  the  yard,  could  be  seen  the  misty  streaming 
rays  of  incipient  daybreak.  I  rose  on  the  coarse  rug, 
and  shook  myself  well — only  to  lie  down  again,  and 
watch  the  gristling  cinders — for  I  did  not  know  what 
else  to  do  with  myself. 

I  consumed  several  hours  in  a  kind  of  dreamy  dozing, 
in  which  I  was  perpetually  recurring  to  Ashburd  Park. 
I  could  not  help  feeling  a  thrill  of  remorse,  on  consid- 
ering the  anxiety  and  vexation  I  must  have  occasioned. 
Then  I  imaged  the  fat  pursy  Prowzer,  lolling  at  ease 
in  my  warm  kennel — the  butler  bringing  him  his  vict- 
uals— following  his  own  imperial  will  and  pleasure  ; 
and  contrasted  it  with  myself — stretched,  half  shivering, 
before  the  skeleton  of  a  fire — obliged  to  steal  my  dinner 
— for  which  I  am  locked  up  in  the  police  office,  and 
advertised  as  a  worthless  vagabond  !  In  the  middle  of 
these  "  thick-coming,  bitter  fancies,"  I  felt  a  heavy 
thwack  on  my  shoulders  ;  and  starting  up  with  half  a 
howl  and  half  a  bark,  saw  foggy  daylight  coming 
through  the  wide  window  shutters,  which  were  thrown 
aside.  A  cold  draught  crept  shuddering  over  me  ;  and 
on  looking  up  I  beheld  a  tall  strapping  servant  wench^ 
leaning  on  her  brush,  and  looking,  I  fancied  with 
pitying  eye,  upon  me.  I  started  from  the  place  I  occu- 
pied, and  she  went  on  with  her  sweeping.  When 
the   chamber  was  set  to  rights — the   forms  were  ad* 

24 


278  BLUCHER. 

justed — and  the  fire  was  comfortably  lighted — I  again 
lay  down  in  my  former  posture,  and  soon  had  a  most 
excellent  and  substantial  breakfast  brought  me. 

During  the  course  of  the  day,  a  vast  number  of  ap- 
plicants came  to  view  me,  and  if  possible  to  claim  me 
as  their  property  ;  but  the  police  took  prudent  care  to 
bid  each  describe  minutely  my  person.  Many  funny  dis- 
putes occurred  outside  the  door.  "  I  vhant  to  see  this 
here  dog,"  said  the  voice  of  a  cockney,  as  I  judged 
from  his  accent  and  pronunciation. 

M  How  so  ?     Is't  yours,  sir  ?" 

"  Ay,  it  is,  I  varrant  you !  He  ran  off  from  our  shop 
two  days  ago." 

"  What  colour  may  he  be,  master  ?" 

"What  colour!  Why — a — a — in  fact — what  col- 
our? Why — d'ye  think  I  don't  know  my  own  dog? 
He's  mine,  I  tell  you,  and  I'll  have  him.  So,  open  the 
door." 

"  Not  in  such  a  hurry,  master.  Surely  your  honour 
must  know  your  own  dog.  At  least  say ;  is  he  white 
or  black  ?" 

"  He — he — in  fact  he's  neither,  but  brown  /"  replied 
the  bestial,  ignorant  cockney. 

u  Then  spare  yourself  further  trouble,  master,"  re- 
plied the  man,  opening  the  door,  and  disclosing  a  dog, 
streaked  with  broad  patches  of  white  and  black.  He 
slunk  away  heartily  ashamed. 

After  a  great  number  of  such  applicants,  for  a 
week's  time,  the  magistrate  determined  that  I  should  be 
sold  at  once  ;  for,  as  he  said,  I  ate  enormously.  A 
pretty  independent  life  was  this  !  Sold,  and  bartered, 
and  thieved,  and  imprisoned  every  moment  since  I 
came  to  London.  Oh,  for  Ashburd — tut — I  merely 
wrote  this  in  a  qualm  of  sickness. 


BLUCHER.  279 

CHAPTER    VIII. 

I  am  sold.— Description  of  my  new  Master. 

March  23d,  1824.  It  fell  to  my  lot  to  be  bought 
by  an  apothecary,  for  three  pounds,  three  shillings,  and 
three  pence  three  farthings  ;  for  the  sable  creature 
higgled  and  haggled  for  an  odd  farthing.  He  was  soon 
furnished  with  a  rope  ;  and  I  was  led  grumbling  and 
growling  to  the  door,  whereat  stood  a  crazy,  dingy, 
nondescript  vehicle,  which  he  dignified  by  the  name  of 
a  one-horse  chay,  but  which  i"  humbly  beg  leave  to 
translate  into  a  "pillbox,  drawn  by  an  old  leech." 
Into  this  machine  was  I  presently  hoisted  ;  the  flap 
was  buttoned  down — Mr.  McDrenchem  whistled,  the 
whip  descended,  and  away  we  rumbled  ;  my  unhappy 
body  jolting  about  hither  and  thither,  according  to  every 
rut  we  encountered.  At  last  the  one-horse  chay  stopped, 
opposite  to  a  house  in  Holborn.  As  the  flap  was  unbut- 
toned to  let  out  Mr.  McDrenchem,  while  he  descended 
to  rap  at  the  little  dingy  green  door,  I  stood  ruefully 
observing  my  future  domicile.  It  was  a  slim  house  of 
four  stories  ;  the  windows,  two  abreast,  were  level  with 
the  walls ;  they  were  high,  narrow,  and  short  paned. 
The  bottom  was  a  broad  bow,  with  a  green  blind  let 
down ;  and  in  each  corner  was  a  piece  of  fine  linen, 
whereon  was  painted  these  letters  : 

"  Gideon  McDrenchem, 

"  Surgeon,  Apothecary,  and  Accoucheur. 

"  N.B.  At  home  till  10  in  the  morning,  and  after  6  in  the 

evening.     Advice  gratis  to  the  poor." 

I  was  soon  summoned.  I  entered  the  shop,  where 
a  pale  listless  apprentice  sat  at  a  desk,  kicking  his 
heels  against  his  stool.  My  heart  sickened  at  the  long 
rows  of  bottles,  white  and  green,  slim  and  gorbellied  ; 


2S0  BUUCHER. 

I  cast  a  shuddering  glance  at  the  ranks  of  ointment 
jars  and  pill  pots,  and  hurried  into  the  surgery.  There 
sat  an  old  wheezing  man  with  one  eye,  awaiting  the 
doctor ;  a  dirty  vial  was  balancing  on  his  shrivelled 
fingers. 

"  Eh,  gratis  patient !  Past  the  hour,  freen'— past 
the  hour,  freen' — " 

"  Please,  sir,  it's  just  seven  minutes  past  ten,  and 
I'se  so  bad  with  the  rhewmatise." 

"  Come  to-morrow,  come  to-morrow.  It's  mair  'an 
ten  minutes  syn  St.  Andrew's  chappit  ten.  Glad  to 
see  ye  to-morrow,  freen'-*-be  sure  ye're  here  afore 
ten."  So  the  gratis  patient  was  fain  to  hobble  out  at 
double  quick  time,  and  my  new  master  dragged  me  up 
stairs.  He  was  a  little,  thin,  wrinkled,  money-getting 
fellow,  with  a  huge  pair  of  spectacles  on  liis  nose. 
His  wife  was  a  tall,  gaunt,  ghastly-hued  woman,  who 
nevertheless  affected  somewhat  of  the  fine  lady. 

"  Ye  ken,  Maggie,  a  said  a  would  bring  ye  some- 
thing guid  !  Look  ye  !"  and  he  pushed  me  on  before 
him. 

"Eh!  lauk!    Why,  how  much  did  ye  give  for  him?' * 

"Three  pounds,  three  shillings,  and  three  pence 
three  farthings." 

"  Wouldn't  take  no  lower,  I  suppose  ?" 

*'  Ha,  na,  Maggie  !  The  chaps  are  aye  unco  hard 
at  aught  o'  a  bargain.  There's  na  coming  ower  near 
them ;  there's  na  coming  ower  near  them,  I'se  assure 
ye,  Maggie." 

"  Indeed,  so  I  think,  lovy  ;  it's  a  most  gashly  sum  to 
give  for  a  dog — and  such  a  dog!"  At  hearing  such 
shameful  depreciation,  I  could  not  refrain  from  growl- 
ing deeply. 

'*  See'd  ye  ever  such  a  vicious  creature  !" 

"  I'fackins  !  I  think  I  might  ha'  dun  better  wi'  three 
pounds,  three  shillings,  and  three  pence,  Maggie,"  re- 
plied the  apothecary,  thoughtfully. 

"  Hout !  it  can't  be  help'd  now,  you  know,  Gideon  ; 
only  add  sixpence  to  each  draught  that  Alderman  Cop- 


BLUCHER.  281 

pernose  and  Deputy  Tunbelly  have,  and  I'll  vouch  for  it 
you'll  soon  pull  it  up." 

**  Hech  !  hear  till  her!  It's  aye  easy  to  talk,  Mag- 
gie. If  I  were  to  do  siccan  a  thing  as  set  down  *  draught 
aperient  2^.'  in  loco,  (as  we  say  in  Latin,)  '  Haustus 
aperientis,  1*.  6d.,'  Guid  guide  us,  I  should  ha'  them 
raving  here  in  a  fearfV  awsome  manner  !  Hegh, 
Maggie  !  I  wad  ye  had  seen  how  Mister  O'Firkin 
(that's  the  butterman  at  the  corner,  ye  ken)  gaed  on, 
just  'cause  I  set  him  down  'a  glyster,  2*.  6d. !'" 

"  Tut,  Gideon  !  Ye  will  make  it  up,  some  way,  I 
don't  at  all  doubt." 

"  Why,  ay,  wify,  there's  naethin'  left  for't  but  that, 
I'm  thinking.  But  he'll  do  to  follow  the  chay,  and  sleep 
in  the  shop,  an'  mind  it  while  Mr.  Topknot  is  at  meals, 
ye  ken.  Sae,  I'se  call  the  lad,  and  bid  him  feed  him. 
There's  some  grits  an' stale  braith,  I'se  thinking,  wi'  a 
few  wee  bits  o'  odds  an'  ends."  My  heart  sank  within 
me  at  this  pitiful  enumeration.  I  had  a  great  mind  to 
bolt  through  the  drawing  room  windows  in  reckless  de- 
spair. But  the  errand  boy  now  knocked  with  his  knuck- 
les at  the  parlour  door.  He  was  commanded  to  enter. 
He  was  a  neat,  tidy,  humble  boy,  with  coarse  yellow- 
ish hair,  combed  lankily  on  one  side. 

"  Jacob,  tak'  ye  this  dog  down  stairs,  and  gie  him 
for  his  victuals,  what  odds  an'  ends  there  may  be  in 
the  kitchen ;  and  then  get  yourself  ready  to  gae  out 
wi'  some  pheesic  to  Mister  Squelch." 


CHAPTER    IX. 

I  am  sorely  dissatisfied  with  my  Situation.— A  Description  of  Mr. 
Topknot,  the  Apprentice,  and  of  the  Shop. 

I  trotted  down  stairs  into  the  kitchen,  and  was  com- 
pelled by  hunger  to  devour  such  execrable  riff-rafT  as 
— patience  help  me  ! — makes  my  stomach  heave  even 
now  !  To  what  a  despicable  situation  was  I  reduced  ! 
My  brain  was  ready  to  be  turned  upside  down,  when  I 

24* 


282  BLUCHER. 

compared  my  present  situation  with  what  I  had  left, 
and  felt  that  I  deserved  it.  Here  was  I  obliged  to 
gulp  down  all  manner  of  nauseous  filthiness —  or 
starve — and  be  cooped  up  in  a  narrow  house,  half  suf- 
focated with  the  stink  of  drugs — at  the  mercy  of  Mr. 
McDrenchem — the  old  asthmatic  servant — the  appren- 
tice— and  the  errand  boy !  But  the  latter,  I  must  do 
him  the  justice  to  say,  was  a  simple,  kind-hearted  fel- 
low, and  took  a  great  liking  to  me.  He  always  gave 
me  a  small  portion  of  his  own  scanty  meals ;  and 
combed  and  washed  me  with  particular  attention.  I 
often  licked  his  hand  in  return. 

As  soon  as  I  had  finished  what  Mr.  McDrenchem 
was  pleased  to  miscall  my  meal,  I  was  led  into  the 
shop.  This,  to  be  sure,  though  rather  oldfashioned, 
was  a  clean,  tidy,  comfortable  place.  The  floor  was 
covered  with  mosaic-pavement  oilcloth  ;  and  Mr.  Top- 
knot's desk,  at  the  window,  had  railings,  and  nice  green 
silk.  The  bottles,  jars,  pots,  &c,  &c,  were  regularly 
disposed,  and  the  counter  was  clean  and  well  rubbed. 
Mr.  Topknot  might  be  about  nineteen  ;  he  was  a  good- 
looking  young  man,  but  had  a  head  like  a  footman, 
with  his  stiff  grayish  hair  twisted  forcefully  into  a  cone. 
There  was  a  certain  haughtiness,  too,  in  his  manner, 
and  an  affectation  of  dignity,  which  were  mightily  dis- 
agreeable. 

"  Well,  I'm  sure !"  quoth  he,  listlessly,  wriggling 
from  off  his  stool,  on  seeing  the  errand  boy  lead  me  into 
the  shop — "  and  pray,  my  good  fellow,  what  and  whose 
may  that  be  1 — eh  ?  A  good-looking  spiritish  fellow, 
by !" 

"  Please,  sir,  'tis  master's  ;   he  bought  him  to-day." 

"  Ay,  indeed !  Pray,  my  little  fellow,  what  may  he 
have  cost?" 

"  Master  hasn't  told  me,  sir.  He  gave  me  him  to 
feed  (here  methought  his  features  were  stealthily  mod- 
elled into  a  grin)  and  take  care  of."" 

"  Hem !  hem  ! — a  pretty  decentish  piece  of  goods, 
I  must  say,  Jacob." 


BLUCHER.  283 

4t  Glad  you  think  so,  sir.  He's  to  be  left  here  till  I 
come  in  from  Mister  Squelch's,  sir,"  taking  a  bottle 
of  physic  and  a  plaster  from  the  counter — u  will  you 
please  to  take  care  of  him,  sir  V 

"  Ay  !  ay  !  ay  !  to  be  sure.  Come  you  here,  sir ! 
Eh,  Jacob — I  say  ! — what's  the  name  of  this  fellow  ?" 

"  Master  says  he'll  have  him  called  Bolus,  sir." 

«  Ho  ! — Bolus  ?  Well — he's  certainly  a  right  to 
call  his  own  property  by  any  name  he  likes — eh,  Ja- 
cob?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  for  the  prudent  lad  always  took  care  to 
coincide  in  the  opinion  of  his  superiors.  As  soon  as 
he  went  out,  I  was  summoned  to  leap  on  the  counter. 

"So,  so,  Mr.  Bolus!  Heigh!  You  are  a  lad  of 
metal,  are  you]  Upon  my  word,  you've  been  well 
kept!  We" — and  he  spoke  in  a  low  cautious  tone  of 
voice — "  we  shall  see  how  long  you  will  look  sleek  and 
fat  at  Mr.  McDrenchem's,  or  I'm  monstrously  mis- 
taken." 

As  his  master  was  gone  out  on  his  rounds,  we  were 
very  happy  together,  in  frisking  and  leaping  after  each 
other,  in  as  much  as  the  small  space  of  the  shop  and 
surgery  admitted.  At  last,  when  he  was  in  momentary 
expectation  of  the  arrival  of  Mr.  McDrenchem,  he  sat 
down  very  demurely  at  his  desk,  affecting  a  profound 
study  of  "Dr.  Culleri 's  Nosology ;"  while  I  crouched 
down  on  the  rug  in  the  surgery,  by  a  small  but  cheerful 
fire,  immersed  in  bitter  reflection. 

CHAPTER    X. 

Detailing  the  Progress- of  my  Initiation  into  the  Art  and  Mystery  of 
an  Apothecary. 

My  situation  at  Mr.  McDrenchem's  was  not  so  ex- 
cessively laborious  as  I  at  first  feared.  I  had  little 
regular  occupation ;  for  of  what  service  could  a  dog 
be  (even  such  a  dog  as  myself!)  in  the  profession  of 
physic  1  for  I  am  free  to  confess,  that  neither  of  my 


284  BLUCHER. 

paws  is  at  all  calculated  for  feeling  pulses  ;  and  that  I 
cannot  contrive,  like  my  master,  to  stalk  along  with  a 
silver-headed  walking-stick  in  my  hand.  Yet,  during 
the  first  week  I  remained  at  Mr.  McDrenchem's,  I 
obtained  a  very  respectable  knowledge  of  practical 
physic.  For  example  :  Suppose  a  man — a  woman — 
a  child — or  a  puppy — come  to  me,  and  say,  rt  Mr. 
Blucher,  I've  got  a  bellyache — I  want  some  stuff;" 
I  should  hem  and  haw  a  good  deal,  to  collect  my  wits 
about  me,  and  then  tell  the  patient  to  put  out  his  or  her 
tongue. 

Whatever  be  the  appearance  at  present,  I  imme- 
diately say,  "  Sir,  your  stomach  is  out  of  order." 

"  Well,  sir,  and  what  would  you  recommend  ?" 

"  Why,  you  see,  sir,  that  the  precepts  of  Hippoc- 
rates recommend  bleeding  in  all  cases  of  intestinal 
inflammation — especially  in  the  region  of  the  stomach, 
behind  which,  my  dear  sir,  is  situated  the  grand  sym- 
pathetic nerve." 

"  Grand  sympathetic  nerve  !"  exclaimed  the  patient 
in  horror — "  sure,  doctor,  that  is  not  out  of  order !" 
Here  I  shrug  my  shoulders,  nod  my  head,  wink  my  left 
eye,  and  glance  ambiguously.  Having  thus  tortured 
the  wretched  patient  according  to  the  most  approved 
method,  and  worked  up  his  malaide  imaginaire  almost 
into  a  paroxysm  of  real  illness,  I  recapitulate  the  most 
usual  antiphlogistic  remedies — and  sum  up  the  whole 
with  advising  the  patient — to  take  a  dose  of  sulphatis 
magnesia,  or,  vulgo  vocato,  Epsom  salts.  If  ever  a 
patient  chanced  to  ask  me  a  puzzling  question,  I  shook 
my  head ;  and  after  a  long  silence,  uttered,  u  Hie, 
hcec,  hoc — infinitement  oblige,  mounseer — tempus  est 
ludendi,  quod  erat  demonstrandum."  This  jargon  sel- 
dom fails  to  satisfy  the  patient,  who  goes  off  with  the 
profoundest  reverence  for  my  consummate  wisdom.  I 
made  considerable  progress  in  the  study  of  pharmacy. 
I  am  naturally  enterprising ;  but  there  was  one  thing 
with  which  I  could  have  easily  dispensed — Mr.  Top- 
knot was  in  the  habit  of  trying  all  his  experiments  on 


ELUCHER.  2S5 

me.  For  instance — if  he  wished  to  see  how  small  a 
quantity  of  submuriate  of  mercury  would  produce  a 
salivation,  he  had  nothing  to  do  but  enclose  the  requi- 
site quantity  in  a  lump  of  conserve  of  roses,  (a  drug  for 
which  he  discovered  I  had  a  great  partiality,)  put  it  in 
my  way,  and  it  was  sure  to  be  gulped  down,  sans  cere- 
monie,  the  instant  it  was  discovered.  Three  experi- 
ments out  of  ten  played  the  mischief  with  me. 

But  I  now  began  to  think  it  my  turn  for  trying  ex- 
periments. Be  it  known  unto  the  reader,  then,  that 
there  was  a  noble  torn  cat,  who  lived  next  door,  and 
with  whom  I  was  on  very  good  terms.  The  way  in 
which  I  first  conciliated  his  esteem  was  thus  :  Master 
Tom,  one  morning,  had  been  lying  in  wait  near  the 
lair  of  a  huge  monster  of  a  rat ;  he  chanced  to  pop  out 
his  head  ;  and  its  enormous  magnitude  clean  frightened 
Tom.  I  chanced  to  be  near  the  spot,  -and  saw  him 
spitting  and  shivering ;  I  knew  by  his  manner  there 
was  something  in  the  wind,  so  I  took  my  station  oppo- 
site. By-and-by  the  rat  leaped  out — the  cat  absolutely 
yelled — for  I  never  heard  a  cat  utter  such  a  sound  be- 
fore— and  jumped  on  my  back.  I  bounded  after  the 
object  of  his  horror — half  suffocated,  the  meantime, by 
the  tight  grasp  of  his  claws  round  my  neck — and  suc- 
ceeded in  snapping  the  vermin  almost  in  halves,  with 
exceeding  fierceness.  Tom  loved  me  sincerely  ever 
after  this  exploit. 

This  was  the  animal  on  which  I  had  resolved  to 
commence  the  practice  of  my  experimental  chymistry. 
So,  one  morning,  just  after  the  boy  had  done  sweeping 
out  the  shop,  and  before  Mr.  Topknot  had  come  down, 
(for  he  was  an  infamously  late  riser,)  I  coaxed  Tom 
into  the  surgery.  I  then  went  into  the  shop,  leaped  on 
the  counter,  and  stood  eying  some  small  powder  bot- 
tles with  intense  earnestness.  It  was  an  awful  mo- 
ment. All  was  profound  stillness  around,  save  and  ex- 
cept when  the  dustman  tinkled  his  bell,  or  the  shrill 
cresswoman  published  the  contents  of  her  rural  basket. 
The  cat  was  basking  cosily  on  the  hearth  before  the 


286*  BLUCHER. 

fire  in  the  surgery.  My  heart  fluttered.  How  did  I 
know  but  that  in  mistake  I  might  hurry  him  off  to  his 
long  home,  with  a  dose  of  arsenic,  or  oxymuriate  of 
mercury  ?  The  thought  startled  me — my  nose  grew 
stone  cold,  and  I  jumped  off  the  counter.  I  soon  re- 
vived, and  grew  ashamed  of  my  pusillanimity.  Up  I 
leaped  again,  I  opened  my  mouth,  and  grasped  a  bottle, 
which,  as  I  conceived,  contained  the  calomel.  I  soon 
contrived  to  pour  out  about  a  scruple's  weight  into  a 
piece  of  paper  ;  the  powder  was  of  a  damp  dingy 
white.  It  seemed,  as  I  fancied,  rather  grittier  than 
calomel — but  what  of  that  ?  I  had  never  before  seen 
it  so  closely.  I  directly  enveloped  it  in  a  tempting 
piece  of  conserve  ;  and  then,  with  the  piece  in  my 
mouth,  trotted  into  the  surgery.  Poor  Tom  little 
imagined  the  horrors  brewing  for  him !  How  inno- 
cently he  lay,  blinking  at  the  ruddy  flames  !  For  a 
moment  I  felt  ashamed  of  the  scurvy  trick  I  was  about 
to  play  :  but  my  curiosity  burned  fiercely — it  overcame 
all  obstacles.  I  feigned  to  romp,  as  I  had  often  done 
with  Tom.  At  last,  I  contrived  to  open  his  mouth — I 
held  asunder  the  jaws,  and  then  dropped  in  the  nau- 
seous compound.     The  cat  turned  up  the  whites  of  his 

eyes — and  then  swallowed  it! — 

******* 

I  lay  down  by  his  side,  earnestly  regarding  his  coun- 
tenance. For  a  while  he  lay  very  quiet,  with  his 
mouth  resting  on  his  soft  velvet  paws.  I  beheld  all 
was  going  on  well,  and  blessed  myself  on  my  success. 
All  on  a  sudden  the  cat  jumped  on  his  feet — his  teeth 
chattered — his  eyes  turned  round  in  all  manner  of  di- 
rections— he  grinned  in  a  ghastly  manner — his  flanks 

heaved  like  a  pair  of  bellows. 

******* 

My  head  seemed  turning  round  !  At  length  he  was 
seized  with  a  fit  of  horrible  sickness,  and  all  the  nau- 
seous consequences  regularly  followed  in  such  a  loath- 
some manner,  as  I  hope  never  again  to  witness  !  This 
latter  circumstance  would  never  do ;  so  I  grasped  him 


BLUCHER.  287 

by  his  neck,  and  carried  him  into  the  yard.  I  shivered 
all  over  like  a  leaf  rudely  shaken  by  the  wind,  The 
cat,  in  fact,  was  evidently  enduring  mortal  agonies. 
1  was  his  murderer ! —  for  in  half  an  hour  he  expired  in 
a  frightful  fit  of  convulsions. 

I  disposed  of  the  corpse  with  secrecy  and  despatch 
— down  a  place  which  need  not  be  mentioned.  His 
fate,  to  all  but  myself,  was  enveloped  in  the  profoundest 
mystery.  The  crime,  however,  was  principally  laid  at 
the  door  of  poor  Mr.  Topknot. 

"  Ey,  ey,  sair !  Am  werry  sairtain  you've  been 
physicking  the  cat — poor  dear  creature ! — an'  he  suck 
werry  excellent  mouser !  Ey  ! — ant  ye  ashamed  o' 
yourself?"  said  the  owner  to  him  one  morning,  after 
his  master  was  gone  his  first  rounds.  In  vain  poor 
Topknot  swore  and  protested  he  knew  nothing  of  the 
creature  ;  it  wouldn't  do  ;  the  good  woman  seemed  to 
bring  home  to  him  the  charge,  and  to  establish  its  cer- 
tainty in  her  own  mind  by  the  following  most  regular 
and  correct  syllogism  : — 

"  Mr.  Topknot  is  fond  of  trying  experiments  on 
wermin ;  my  torn  cat  is  missing ;  therefore,  Mr.  Top* 
knot  has  physicked  him  to  death !  ! !" 

Several  sage  discussions  on  the  subject  were  held 
in  the  parlour  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  McDrenchem  for  want 
of  something  better  to  talk  about,  while  I,  the  murderer, 
lay  shivering  under  the  table,  or  before  the  fire.  But 
the  most  terrific  tragedy  must  have  a  finis.  In  a  few 
weeks  poor  Tom  and  his  hard  fate  were  consigned  over 
to  oblivion.  Not  but  that  my  conscience  often  ex- 
perienced some  sharp  twinges  of  remorse ;  but  an 
apothecary,  especially  an  enterprising  one,  soon  forgets 
and  despises  such  trifles. 


288  BLTJCHER. 

CHAPTER   XI. 

Showing  that 

"  Blessings  ever  wait  on  virtuous  deeds, 
And  though  a  late,  a  sure  reward  succeeds." 

I  cannot  help  thinking  that  I  am  a  great  fool  for 
heading  chapter  the  eleventh  with  this  motto  ;  it  ought 
rather  to  be — in  my  case,  at  least — 

"  For  curses  ever  wait  on  barbarous  deeds, 
And,"  &c. 

I  would  substitute  for  it  this  latter  version  ;  but  the 
fact  is,  I  have  not  time  to  scratch  out,  and  my  penknife 
is  very  blunt. 

There  is  a  certain  luxury  attending  the  recollection 
of  great  achievements,  and  even  of  the  pains,  vexations, 
and  anxieties  attending  their  performance.  The  mind 
delights,  when,  as  it  were,  safe  arrived  on  a  fine  flowery 
island,  to  turn  round,  and  cast  her  eyes  on  the  turbulent 
ocean,  and  to  deride  its  angry  foaming  billows  :  but  I 
cannot  help  thinking  that  the  excitement  and  terror  it 
endured  thereon  begetteth  an  inclination  for  a  repeti- 
tion of  the  same  ;  because  pleasure  is  sweet  after  pain, 
rest  after  trouble,  and  happiness  after  misery — the  con- 
trast in  everything.  Now,  in  my  own  case — the  cat 
and  the  emetic  tartar  (as  I  have  since  learned  was  the 
name  of  the  drug,  which  I  unfortunately  mistook  for  calo- 
mel) occasioned  me  a  little  world  of  trouble  and  ex- 
citement. I  called  forth  the  energy  of  mind  which  be- 
fore I  knew  not  that  I  possessed.  The  bold  enterprise 
■ — the  delicious  agony  of  uncertainty — the  finale — the 
result — are  very  pleasant  subjects  for  calm  retrospec- 
tion. When  I  retired  for  the  night  to  my  bed  of  straw 
beneath  Mr.  Topknot's  desk — when  all  was  quiet  around 
me,  in  dreary  inspissated  darkness,  I  often  meditated 
on  my  rash  experiment  and  its  fatal  consequences. 


BLUCHER.  289 

Yet,  I  seemed  bewitched,  for  though  the  latter  would 
stand  in  grim  array  before  me,  I  longed — yea,  even 
longed  for  another  opportunity.  But,  alas,  there  were 
no  more  cats  to  be  had  in  the  neighbourhood.  I  did 
not  know  how  to  account  for  it ;  but  whenever  I 
chanced  to  meet  a  neighbouring  cat  after  this  circum- 
stance, they  all  avoided  me,  hawking  and  spitting  fu- 
riously at  me.  I  seemed  to  be  branded  on  the  fore- 
head with  cruelty.  But,  as  I  was  saying,  my  desire 
for  experiments  was  now  stronger  than  ever,  and  I  cast 
about  daily  in  my  mind  for  a  fresh  subject  for  them. 
Will  any  one  believe  it  ?  I  at  length  fixed— on  the  er- 
rand boy  I ! 

I  must  have  been  drunk  when  such  an  unlucky  fancy 
entered  my  head.  I  fancied  poor  Jacob  could  read  my 
determination  in  my  guilty  countenance.  I  was  al- 
ways casting  a  sheep's  eye  on  him ;  I  was  always 
casting  about  for  a  fit  and  proper  opportunity  to  put  in 
practice  my  resolution  ;  but  when  I  recollected  all  his 
innocent  kindness  towards  me — I  blushed  for  shame, 
even  on  the  inside  of  my  mouth  ! 

At  one  time,  I  own,  a  substitute  for  him  entered 
my  head,  in  the  person  of  Mr.  Topknot ;  but  I  relin- 
quished that  idea  in  despair.  What  opportunity  had  I 
for  physicking  the  apprentice,  who  took  his  meals 
up  stairs  ?  How  could  I  get  the  drug,  when  he  who 
had  charge  of  them  was  in  the  shop  ?  And  suppose  I 
should  be — detected !  Now  you  must  know  that  Jacob, 
the  errand  boy,  had  his  meals  in  the  shop  during  the 
times  which  were  employed  for  that  purpose  by  Mr. 
Topknot  up  stairs.  His  dinner  generally  consisted  of 
three  thick  pieces  of  bread  and  butter,  folded  up  in  a 
dingy  white  handkerchief.  He  frequently  left  this  open 
on  the  lid  of  an  oilskin-covered  basket,  while  he  was 
for  a  moment  summoned  on  an  errand.  One  day  at  his 
dinner,  just  as  he  had  saved  a  very  choice  morceau — 
a  titbit,  as  it  was  very  nicely  cut  and  squared,  well 
covered  with  salt  butter — the  shrill  voice  of  the  house- 
keeper suddenly  summoned  him  down  stairs,  and  he 

25 


290  BLTJCHER. 

left  it  on  the  farther  corner  of  his  basket.  I  sat  on  the 
mat  before  him,  leering  upon  him  out  of  the  corner  of 
my  eye,  although  I  feigned  sleep.  As  he  closed  the 
shop  door,  I  had  an  opportunity  of  putting  in  practice 
my  scheme  immediately.  So,  I— -in  fine,  I  accom- 
plished my  purpose  ! — no  matter  how  for  the  present! 

Now,  it  so  happened,  that  when  Jacob  was  summoned 
down  stairs,  it  was  for  the  purpose  of  supping  up  some 
soup,  of  three  days'  standing,  which  the  beneficence  of 
Mr.  McDrenchem,  when  himself  found  it  undrinkable, 
had  ordered  to  be  inflicted  upon  his  errand  boy.  As 
soon  as  he  had  finished  the  nauseous  liquid,  with  sun- 
dry ejaculations  and  contortions,  which  happily  passed 
unobserved  by  the  blinking  eyes  of  the  housekeeper — 
he  was  suddenly  summoned  forth  on  some  errand,  and 
I  was  commanded  to  attend  Mr.  McDrenchem,  on  a 
visit  to  Sir  Diggory  Drysalt.  On  my  return  I  was 
handed  my  supper,  such  as  it  was — being  a  collection 
of  all  the  vile  morceaus  to  be  found  on  the  premises. 
As  soon  as  I  had  done — for  what  can  a  dog  do,  when 
his  only  alternative  is  to  eat  such  stuff,  or  starve  ? — as 
I  was  clearing  out  my  throat,  I  once  or  twice  no- 
ticed something  of  exceeding  grittiness,  though  en* 
tirely  tasteless  ;  I  supposed  some  sand,  as  usual,  had 
fallen  into  my  victuals.  Presently  the  errand  boy  came 
down  stairs. 

u  Please  ye,  mem,  where's  my  piece  o'  bread  and 
butter  V 

lt  Preat  and  putter,  ye  farment !  Tif  ye  think  / 
know  ought  o't?" 

"  But  it  was  such  a  nice  square  piece,  mem." 

"  Oh  ! — fhat — ye  mean  tat  piece  left  on  your  pas- 
ket  ?" 

*'  Yes,  yes,  I  thank'ee,  mem  ;  that's  it." 

"  Oh — f  hell ! — master  comes  town  a  little  time  since, 
and  seeing  it  there,  '  It's  an  unco  shame,'  quo'  he,  *  to 
waste  guid  brede  an'  butter  in  siccan  a  sinfu'  manner ! 
Hout  o'  the  dainty  callant !  Maggie,  lovy  !  tak  tent 
it's  taken  down  stairs,  an'  given  to  Bolus' — (myname, 


BLXJCHER.  291 

as  you  recollect) — an'  so  it  fhas,  inteet,  and  ta  tog  has 
just  eaten  it !  !  •" 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

I  felt  every  single  hair  on  every  single  limb  start  up- 
right, as  if  it  intended  to  take  its  departure  !  What  a 
judgment !  At  last  I  had  fallen  into  the  snare  designed 
for  others  ! 

Faugh ! — in  a  few  moments  after  the  dame's  annun- 
ciation, I  felt  such  an  astounding  sensation  all  over  me 
— such  an  uproarious  commotion  inside — such  rum- 
bling— swelling — tweezing — and  then — I  fell  flat  on 
the  iloor,  and  thought  there  was  an  end  of  the  world. 
I  have  some  faint  recollection  of  a  burst  of  laughter 
among  the  spectators — and  then  they  joined  together, 
and  pitched  me — where,  gentle  reader- — on  some  clean 
hay  or  straw — and  then  sending  for  a  farrier  I— -they 
pitched  me — into  the  coal  hole,  barred  the  door,  and 
left  me  !  Oh !  the  ghastly,  unutterable  horrors,  mental 
and  corporeal,  of  that  dismal  night ! 

Tom  flitted  across  my  fancy — his  ghost  I  mean,  (jmx 
illocum !)  and  grinned,  and  chattered,  and  spit  at  me  ! 
He  came  close  to  me — he  brushed  up  his  hairs — he 
rolled  his  eyes  ;  my  brain  reels  with  the  recollection ! 


CHAPTER   XII. 

I  am  somewhat  refractory. — Horrible  wretchedness  of  an  Apothe- 
cary's Domicile. — An  Incident. 

On*  Sunday  afternoons,  Mr.  Topknot  was  generally 
visited  by  a  few  lanky  young  men — embryo  linendra- 
pers,  grocers,  small  clerks,  &c. — who  knocked  on  the 
shutters  thrice  with  their  thumbs — whistled  as  often — 
(to  ascertain  if  "the  gowernor"  wasn't  in) — before 
whom  he  wished  to  appear  to  great  advantage.  As 
soon  as  he  heard  the  signal  outside,  he  pulled  up  his 
collars,  adjusted  his  ';  topknot,"  and  then  rapped  with 
his  knuckles  on  his  desk.  He  once,  on  a  similar  oc- 
casion, took  a  fancy  to  exhibit  my  docile  obedience*  to 

N  2 


292  BLUCHER. 

him.  He  whistled,  and  whistled  ;  and  bawled  "  Bolus  ! 
— Bolus  !" — but  I  was  resolved  not  to  hear.  He  rattled 
the  plastic  line — I  growled  ! 

"  It's  werry  wonderful ! — werry  impendent  o'  the 
animal !"  simpered  Bodkin  Draper. 

"Bolus! — Bolus! — Bolus!"  roared  poor  Mr.  Top- 
knot. None  are  so  deaf  as  those  who  will  not  hear ; 
at  last,  provoked  at  my  obstinacy,  and  the  giggling  of 
his  smirking  companions,  he  uttered  a  vast  number  of 
unmannerly  scurrilities,  summing  up  with  such  a  smart 
thwack  on  my  rump,  as  made  me  spring  forth — my  eyes 
flashing  fire,  and  growling  gruff  defiance  !  They  all 
turned  white  ;  two  (Pickle  Varnish  and  Bodkin  Dra- 
per) laid  their  hands  on  the  shop  door,  to  ensure  a  ready 
retreat ;  and  poor  Topknot  asked  me  pardon,  with  his 
eyes.  But  I  don't  know  how  to  account  for  one  cir- 
cumstance. In  our  contests  with  man,  though  adven- 
titious circumstances  may  conspire  to  give  us  a  tem- 
porary advantage,  we  are  always  sure  to  come  off  the 
worse  for  it  in  the  long  run :  at  least,  I  always  found  it 
so.  Yet  there  was  something  in  the  form  and  look  of 
the  human  eye  which  quite  undogged  me.  I  could 
never  stand  it.  It  seemed  the  organ  of  some  un- 
fathomable intelligence,  which  quite  conquered  me. 
At  times  it  had  a  certain  lurking  depth  of  expres- 
sion— a  fiery  glare  of  anger,  which  made  my  blood  run 
cold.  But  the  thing  is,  that  when  we  get  refractory, 
few  people  have  sufficient  presence  of  mind  to  try  the 
experiment.  My  conscience  pricks  me  for  disclosing 
this  canine  secret. 

Ever  after  this  shop  incident,  Mr.  Topknot  bore  me 
a  grudge.  He  once  or  twice  mingled  a  quarter  of  a 
pound  of  Epsom  salts  in  my  dinner ;  but  the  first 
mouthful  generally  sufficed.  He  would  place  frag- 
ments of  broken  vials,  &c,  at  the  bottom  of  victuals; 
whereby  my  tongue  and  mouth  were  frequently  se- 
verely lacerated.  He  applied  cowhage — or,  in  the  lan- 
guage of  the  Pharmacopoeia,  dolichos  pruriens,  to  my 
back,  head,  tail,  &c,  whereby  the  most  excruciating 


BLUCHER.  293 

fit  of  itching  ensued.  He  gave  me  an  ill  name  to  Mr, 
McDrenchem.  He  called  me  a  thief,  &c.  He  would 
sometimes  drop  on  my  back,  or  nose,  or  into  my  ears, 
as  it  were  by  chance,  hot  and  stinking  ointment.  But, 
at  last,  when  I  had  been  so  far  provoked  out  of  my 
proper  reason  as  to  give  him  a  sharp  snap  on  the  calf 
of  his  leg,  he  planned  one  of  the  most  diabolical  plots 
I  ever  heard  of.  He  suddenly  seemed  to  lay  by  all  his 
ancrer,  and  never  spoke  to  me  but  with  the  most  soft  and 
smiling  cordiality.  He  patted  my  back  ;  he  combed 
me  ;  he  played  with  me  ;  he  bought  me  presents.  We 
were,  once  more,  excellent  friends  ;  I  did  all  he  bid  me. 

One  Sunday  evening,  he  thus  accosted  his  master  : — 

"  Please,  sir,  I've  done  all  the  physic.  May  I  go 
out  this  evening,  sir,  for  an  airing  ?" 

"  Guid  guide  us  ! — an'  fhat  for  o'  Sunthay  evening?'' 

"  I  vant  to  exhale,"  replied  Topknot,  simpering,  "  the 
sweet  wernal  breezes.  Ton  my  soul,  master,  'tis  too 
great  confinement." 

u  Hout  awa  wi'  ye  !  Too  great  confinement?  Is't 
na  just  your  duty?" 

"Sir,"  replied  the  apprentice,  bristling,  "I'se  make 
bold  to  answer,  'tis  not  my  duty  to  go  into  a  consump- 
tion for  vant  of  fresh  air  !" 

"  Eigh !  eigh !  Maister  Topknot,  gang  intil  a  con- 
sumption !  Gang  intil  a  consumption  of  victuals,  ye'll 
be  meaning,  man !  Why,  ecod !  its  costs  me  na'  mair 
nor  less  'an  sevenpence  farthing  a  day  to  keep  ya !" 

"  And  what  if  it  does,  sir  ?"  replied  Topknot,  red- 
dening with  anger  ;  "  don't  ye  think,  sir,  I  am  worth 
more  than  sevenpence  farthing  per  diem  to  ye  ?  Didn't 
I  pay  ye  a  premium  of  one  hundred  and  thirty-nine 
pounds  seventeen  shillings  and  eightpence  halfpenny? 
Once  more,  sir,  may  I  go  out  this  evening?" 

"  Ye  must  be  back  by  a  quarter  past  eight  o'clock, 
Master  Topknot,"  replied  my  master,  who  began  to  see 
he  had  the  worst  of  the  previous  argument. 

"  I  will,  dear  sir.  Now  may  I  presume — bold  war- 
mint  that  I  am,  (he  was  very  fond  of  this  ohrase,)  to 

25* 


294  BLUCHER. 

ask  ye  a  favour?"  he  continued,  in  a  winning,  whining 
tone — "  may  Bolus  go  with  me,  sir  ?" 

u  Yes,  yes,  I'm  thinking,  Maister  Topknot,  I'm  just 
thinking  an  out  will  do  him,  poor  fellow,  na  mickle 
harm." 

Mr.  McDrenchem  walked  up  stairs ;  Mr.  Topknot 
straightway  bustled  about  tight  in  readiness  for  his  ex- 
cursion. I  could  not  help  noticing,  with  considerable 
surprise,  that  he  curled  up  a  thin  rope,  and  put  it  in  his 
hat,  beneath  an  imitation-silk  pocket  handkerchief.  He 
walked  up  the  City  Road.  It  swarmed  with  strutting 
apprentices,  pale-faced  tailors,  giggling  milliners'  girls, 
servants,  &c. — all  stiff  and  bedizened  in  their  Sunday 
finery.  We  walked  up  to  the  Shepherd  and  Shep- 
herdess Fields,  and  then  turned  off  into  the  new  road. 
This  conducted  us  to  the  New  River.  Just  about 
opposite  Canonbury  House,  Topknot  cast  about  for 
a  stone.  He  found  one  of  considerable  magnitude. 
"  This  will  do,"  said  he,  and  forthwith  sat  himself  down, 
tied  one  end  of  the  rope  round  it,  and  brought  it  to 
the  margin  of  the  deepest  part  of  the  river.  He  sat 
down,  with  the  stone  on  his  right,  and  me  on  his  left 
side  ;  the  string,  or  rope  I  should  say,  went  behind  him. 
This  he  easily  fastened  round  my  neck,  for  I  knew 
nothing  of  his  intention,  and  then  gave  me  a  sudden 
jerk.  The  impetus  was  too  great  for  him ;  he  suddenly 
lost  his  balance — fell  into  the  water,  and  instantly  dis- 
appeared. As  for  myself,  the  rope,  fortunately,  was 
much  longer  than  he  expected,  and  allowed  me  to  re- 
gain my  footing,  without  drawing  in  after  me  the  fatal 
stone.  Poor  Topknot  soon  rose,  at  about  a  yard  and  a 
half  distance,  and  the  look  he  cast  on  me  I  shall  never 
forget.  He  could  not  swim  a  single  stroke,  and  went 
down  instantly  a  second  time.  I  was  constrained  to 
remain  an  inactive  spectator  of  this  terrible  tragedy  ; 
how  could  I  save  him,  attached  as  I  was  to  the  stone, 
which  he  had  designed  for  the  instrument  of  my  de- 
struction ?  My  heart  seemed  bursting  within  me.  He 
was  my  deadly  foe — my  intended  murderer ;  but  his 


BLUCHER.  295 

snares  had  entrapped  himself!  I  yelled,  and  howled, 
and  barked — alas,  uselessly  !  The  shadows  of  the 
evening  were  falling  around — the  busy  hum  of  the  re- 
tiring visiters  sounded  faintly  and  afar  off;  there  was 
one  old  gentleman  at  about  twenty  yards'  distance, 
apparently  reading  a  book,  and  walking  slowly  to- 
wards me. 

As  the  unfortunate  Topknot  appeared  at  the  surface 
for  the  last  time,  I  yelled  with  the  fierceness,  the  agony 
of  despair.  I  attracted  the  notice  of  the  gentleman — 
he  ran  towards  me  with  hurried  steps,  and  looked 
petrified  with  amazement !  Well  he  might !  Floating 
on  the  water  was  a  man's  hat ;  on  the  margin  sat  a 
large  Newfoundland  dog,  fastened  by  a  rope  to  a  large 
stone,  earnestly  looking  on  the  water.  Several  bubbles 
rising  sullenly  to  the  surface,  caught  his  eye — he  turned 
of  an  ashy  palenesss.  The  dreariness  of  the  scenery 
— my  low,  querulous  whining — my  astounding  situa- 
tion— the  bubbles  of  water — the  hat — all  all  were 
overpowering.  He  sunk  down,  and  fainted.  I  don't 
think,  however,  that  dogs  have  the  fainting  gift !  but  I 
went  very  near  it,  My  eyes  swam  in  their  sockets— 
they  grew  dim — they  smarted — I  tottered — I  shivered 
all  over ! 

I  have  a  faint  recollection,  at  this  distance  of  time, 
of  a  group  of  dark  figures  near  the  river's  edge — of 
glaring  torches — of  low  hurried  mutterings — of  drag- 
nets splashing  and  agitating  the  water — and  a  dim  re- 
membrance of  their  at  last  raising  to  the  surface — a 
bloated,  stiff,  unseemly,  discoloured  form. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

An  Advertisement,  and  Change  of  Situation. 

"  Late  on  Sunday  evening,  as  the  Rev.  Jacob  Writhe- 
text  was  walking  near  the  New  River,  opposite  Canon- 


293  BLUCHER. 

bury  House,  he  was  attracted  to  the  water's  edge  by 
hearing  the  strange  howling  of  a  large  Newfoundland 
dog,  which,  on  approaching,  he  found,  to  his  great 
amazement,  sat  on  the  margin  of  the  river  with  his 
neck  attached  to  a  large  stone  by  a  rope.  It  was  look- 
ing fixedly  on  the  water;  on  which  Mr.  Writhetext 
discovered,  with  horror,  a  hat  floating  near,  and  ob- 
served, about  the  centre  of  the  water,  air  bubbling  up, 
as  from  the  bottom.  With  that  firmness  and  decision 
which  always  distinguish  his  character,  Mr.  Writhe- 
text  instantly  summoned  some  men  to  the  water's  edge 
with  dragnets,  &c,  and  about  four  in  the  morning,  after 
indefatigable  toil  and  perseverance,  succeeded  in  raising 
the  body  of  a  young  gentleman  of  respectable  appear- 
ance, bloated  and  swelled  with  the  water.  His  face 
was  much  discoloured.  He  appeared  to  have  been  in 
the  water  many  hours.  On  opening  his  coat,  a  pocket- 
book  was  discovered,  inside  of  which  were  several 
memoranda,  almost  effaced  by  the  water;  but  here  and 
there  Mr.  W.  deciphered  these  words  :  '  Treac — e 
— nd  laud — num  makes  S — rup  of  p — pp — es.  Burnt 
Sp — ng — e  a  deobstruent.  Sir — p  of  Viol — ts  made 
w — th  common  Sug — r  — nd  Ind — go.'  Then  followed 
this  triplet  more  distinctly  : — 

"  James  Topknot  — s  my  n — me, 
Holb— n  — s  my  dwelling  place, 
Ch — t  — s  my  salv — tion." 

"  Diligent  crying  having  been  made  in  Holborn, 

McDrenchem,  Esq.,  a  medical  gentleman  recognised 
the  body  as  that  of  his  apprentice.  No  clew,  as  yet, 
has  been  found  to  this  mysterious  affair.  The  dog  in 
question  has  been  detained  at  Mr.  Writhetext's  and  pur- 
chased by  him  of  Mr.  McDrenchem,  who  refused  any 
longer  to  receive  it  into  his  house." 

Such  was  the  paragraph  which  was  inserted  in  all 
the  metropolitan  Monday  evening  papers.  I  was  taken 
to  Mr.  Writhetext's,  a  clergyman,  living  in  Parson  Ter- 
race, Islington.     His  household  consisted  of  himself, 


BLUCHER.  297 

nine  squalling  children,  a  lazy  trolloping  wife,  with  a 
young  sen-ant  girl,  ditto.  He  was  an  afternoon  lecturer 
at church,  and  occasionally  preached  at  Bumble- 
bone  Square  chapel  of  ease.  His  annual  income 
amounted  to  seventy-five  pounds. 

I  had  a  wretched  time  of  it  here  :  what  with  eating 
most  abominable  trash — being  beaten  and  otherwise 
maltreated  by  the  servant  girl — being  cuffed,  ridden, 
and  provoked  by  the  children — I  longed  for  my  "  cold, 
cold  grave !"  My  only  intervals  of  comparative  com- 
fort, and  even  those  were  few  and  far  between,  were 
when  I  was  allowed  to  enter  my  master's  study.  This, 
be  it  known,  was  a  nutshell  of  a  place — a  back  attic, 
where  the  window  rattled  in  its  frame,  at  the  instigation 
of  every  passing  gust ;  assigned  to  the  poor  henpecked 
parson,  as  a  particular  favour,  by  his  termagant  spouse. 
It  was  the  only  place  in  the  house  which  he  could  call 
his  own  !  Round  the  walls  (the  room  was  about  ten 
feet  square)  was  a  scanty  assortment  of  books  ;  and 
on  a  three-legged  table  (the  leg  wanting  was  supplied, 
when  requisite,  by  a  broken  mopstick)  lay  a  small, 
second-hand,  well-worn  writing  desk.  I  generally  lay 
between  his  legs  while  he  was  writing  his  sermons. 
He  was  a  quiet,  amiable,  inoffensive,  man.  I  wras  in 
great  danger  of  being  starved  here  ;  and  if  I  had  had  the 
heart,  I  should  certainly  have  eloped  from  my  new  mas- 
ter.   At  length  one  fine  Sunday  afternoon,  when  he  went 

to  preach  at church,  I  accompanied  him,  and  lay 

down  by  the  chancel,  in  front  of  the  seat  of  a  rich  man, 
whose  eye  I  frequently  observed  fixed  eagerly  on  me  ; 
in  fact,  I  had  struck  his  fancy,  and  on  the  Monday 
following  he  purchased  me  of  Mr.  Writhetext,  who, 
poor  man,  little  suspected  that  I  had  filled  the  mind  of 
one  of  his  richest  hearers,  while  he  in  the  pulpit  was 
humming  away  his  finest,  though  his  doughtiest  argu- 
ments, garnished  with  all  manner  of  fine  tropes,  figures, 
metaphors,  and  tinkling  with  alliterative  antitheses  ! 
But  it  is  now  time  that  I  introduce  the  reader  to  the 
person  of  my  new  purchaser. 

n3 


298  BLUCHER. 

CHAPTER    XIV. 

Giving  an  Abstract  of  the  History  of  Sir  Diggory  Drysalt. 

The  first  thing  that  is  remembered  of  Diggory  Dry- 
salt,  was  his  being  found,  filthy  and  half  naked,  upon 
a  dunghill,  in  the  parish  of  St.  Giles — that  receptacle 
of  all  that  is  great,  good,  and  dignified  in  human  na- 
ture. He  had  eloped  from  a  country  work  house,  car- 
rying with  him  about  two  shillings  and  threepence  in 
farthings.  The  next  was  his  being  whipped  at  the 
cart's  tail  for  a  petty  larceny,  with  unexampled  sever- 
ity. The  next  week  after  this  salutary  chastisement, 
he  was  found  walking  down  the  Edgeware  road,  in  a 
most  sorrowful  and  contemplative  mood.  Suddenly 
he  struck  his  fist  on  his  forehead,  and  with  vehemence 
exclaimed — "  It's  done — Til  be  a  rich  man  — III  be  a 
second  Whittington .'"  He  turned  round,  and  went  in 
quest  of  employment ;  never  mind  how  mean  and  dis- 
graceful. He  turned  into  an  oilman's  shop  and  begged 
hard  for  a  score  or  two  of  bundles  of  matches ;  it 
would  save  him  from  starvation.  There  was  some- 
thing in  the  lad's  earnestness  that  pleased  the  mer- 
chant of  oils  and  pickles.  He  gave  him  what  he  re- 
quested. As  soon  as  he  had  got  them  beneath  his  arm, 
he  threw  aside  his  wonted  air  of  insolent  sauciness, 
and  appeared  humble,  obliging,  and  industrious.  He 
courteously  sought  customers  for  his  sulphurous 
wares  ;  he  sold  them  all,  and  at  night  found  himself 
possessed  of  eighteen  pence.  How  to  turn  this  to  the 
greatest  advantage  now  employed  his  thoughts.  He 
bought  matches,  and  in  two  days'  time  reckoned  three 
shillings  and  ninepence.  Very  good.  He  had  more 
than  doubled  his  money.     It  was  encouraging. 

By  slow  and  laborious  stages,  he  at  length  accumu- 
lated two  pounds ;  by  shovelling  up  coals,  brushing 


fiLUCHER.  299 

shoes,  occasionally  holding  gentlemen's  gigs,  &c.  With 
this  he  prudently  equipped  himself  with  a  strong  and 
durable  suit  of  clothes  ;  they  consisted  of  two  parts — 
jacket  and  breeches,  made  of  coarse  yellow  leather. 
Enormous-soled  shoes,  and  a  thick  fur  cap,  completed 
his  dress.  He  found  himself,  notwithstanding  this 
outlay,  in  possession  of  twelve  shillings.  He  hired 
himself  as  errand  man  (he  was  now  eighteen)  to  a 
wholesale  tea  warehouse,  in  the  most  humble  capacity. 
He  wheeled  drags,  carried  burdens,  wraited  on  the  men, 
&c.  At  length,  his  steadiness  and  propriety  of  be- 
haviour struck  the  head  clerk,  and  he  was  employed 
in  a  more  trustworthy  place.  He  earned  now  seven- 
teen shillings  a  week  ;  and,  wTith  almost  starving  econ- 
omy, (bread  and  cheese  and  pump  water  his  only  food, 
and  slept  in  the  warehouse  on  a  few  sacks,)  he  was 
enabled  to  lay  by,  out  of  seventeen  shillings  a  week, 
fifteen.  In  twelve  months'  time,  what  with  divers 
other  small  perquisites  from  the  workmen,  clerks,  &c, 
he  reckoned  40/.  of  clear  money,  in  guineas,  silver, 
and  copper.  This  he  put  in  a  savings  bank,  redoubled 
his  assiduity,  and  was  promoted  to  the  station  of  regu- 
lar workman,  worth  two  pounds  a  week.  He  lived  as 
frugally  as  ever,  and  could  never  be  persuaded  to  sleep 
elsewhere  than  on  the  sacks  he  first  used,  nor  to  enter 
a  public  house.  This  year  he  earned  97/.,  which  he 
carried  to  the  savings'  bank.  He  now  possessed  137/. 
of  sterling  money. 

One  evening,  as  he  was  walking  home  past  the  bank, 
his  foot  kicked  against  something-  in  the  street.  He 
took  it  up,  examined  it  with  a  lynx  eye,  discovered  a 
clerk's  pocketbook,  with  bills  in  it.  to  an  immense 
amount  His  brain  reeled,  he  staggered  home,  and 
kept  it  nearest  his  heart.  Next  day  his  fellow-labour- 
ers began  to  talk  about  a  vast  reward  being  adver- 
tised on  the  walls  and  in  the  papers,  for  the  recov- 
ery of  a  lost  pocketbook.  He  trembled  with  excess 
of  joy.     He  determined  to  restore  it.     How  could  fie 


300  BLUCHEK. 

keep  90,000/.  without  detection?  He  issued  forth, 
and  read  the  following  advertisement,  in  large  capitals 
and  flaring  red  paper  : — 

"  £500  reward  ! ! !      Whereas,  on   the  evening   of 

,  on  July  9th,  17 — ,  a  pocketbook  was  dropped, 

as  it  is  conjectured,  in  the  region  of  the  Bank  of  Eng- 
land, or  the  Stock  Exchange,  containing  bills  and  bank 
notes,  upward  of  90,000/. ;  of  all  of  which,  payment 
has  been  stopped  this  morning.  This  is  to  give  no- 
tice, that  jive  hundred  pounds"  (in  letters  two  inches 
long)  "  reward  will  be  paid  to  the  person  who  shall 
bring  the  same  to  Omnium,  Bullion,  and  Co.,  bankers, 
Lombard-street." 

Thither  he  carried  his  prize.  The  whole  house 
was  in  commotion.  Business  was  stopped.  The  un- 
fortunate clerk  sat  in  the  centre,  on  a  chair,  with  his 
neck  handkerchief  unbuttoned,  pale  as  death. 

"  Where's  the  500/.  ?"  inquired  Diggory,  advancing 
to  the  clerk.  The  sound  electrified  all  before  him. 
The  clerk's  eye  gleamed  wildly  with  hope.  He  un- 
buttoned his  coat,  tore  open  his  waistcoat,  and  handed 
to  him  the  identical  pocketbook.  The  young  man 
sank  back  and  fainted.  He  was  paid  the  sum  in  five 
100/.  Bank  of  England  notes,  on  the  spot.  Thoy  en- 
gaged him  as  a  kind  of  porter.  Here  he  learned,  with 
immense,  labour  and  unyielding  application,  to  read 
and  write.  He  was  scribbling  every  moment  of  his 
vacant  hours.  In  a  year's  time  he  wrote  a  good  run- 
ning hand,  and  was  tolerable  expert  at  accounts. 
Through  the  influence  of  the  clerk  whom  he  had  so 
greatly  advantaged,  he  obtained  a  kind  of  inferior 
clerkship  in  the  same  wealthy  concern,  with  a  salary 
of  fifty  pounds  a  year.  As  usual,  he  was  diligent  and 
frugal,  even  to  excess.  He  at  length  ventured  to  spec- 
ulate ;  he  bought  the  sixteenth  of  a  lottery  ticket,  it 
came  up  a  prize  of  50/.  His  share  was  trifling  ;  what 
of  that  ?  It  was  a  prize.  Try  again.  He  bought  an 
eighth — came  up  a  blank.  He  seemed  infatuated. 
Bought  a  half — came  up  a  twenty  pound  prize ;  eon- 


BLUCHER.  301 

sequently  gained  nearly  his  purchase  money.  In  a 
fit  of  excitement  he  purchased  the  whole  of  No.  17,335, 
and  paid  twenty  six  pounds  for  it. 

At  length  the  drawing  day  drew  near :  he  could 
scarcely  attend  to  his  business  ;  ten  times  he  dreamed 
he  got  the  golden  prize  ;  oftener,  that  he  got  a  blank. 
He  began  to  look  pale.  His  eyes  lost  their  vivacity. 
He  was  always  moping  in  corners.  He  had  not  a 
strong  mind.  He  had  weak  nerves.  The  suspense 
was  too  great  for  him.  At  length  the  19th  of  October 
dawned.  Four  o'clock  in  the  evening  was  the  time. 
The  morning  was  cold,  bleak,  and  rainy.  As  the  day 
advanced,  the  weather  grew  more  lowering ;  at  three 
o'clock  a  violent  storm  arose,  it  thundered  with  appal- 
ling loudness,  and  the  fierce  flickering  lightning  gleamed 
like  fiery  serpents  across  the  murky  atmosphere.  He 
left  his  house.  He  directed  his  steps  to  the  lottery 
office.  Vast  crowds  thronged  the  street;  he  had 
scarcely  strength  sufficient  to  push  his  way  through 
them.  However,  he  did  ;  he  elbowed  up  to  the  door 
of  Ironmongers'  Hall,  in  Basinghall-street ;  the  doors 
were  opened ;  he  rushed  up  stairs,  got  to  the  front  seat 
of  the  gallery.  Below,  at  the  farther  end,  sat  a  num- 
ber of  gentleman.  On  each  side  were  laid  large  and 
ponderous  wheels  ;  at  each  side  a  little  blue-coated 
boy  sat  on.  a  stool.  A  signal  was  given  ;  the  holes  of 
each  wheel  were  opened ;  each  boy  thrust  in  his  hand ; 
he  drew  out  a  thin,  crisp  little  roll  of  paper ;  handed 
them  to  two  men,  who  opened  them ;  one  bellowed 
forth  the  number — the  other  the  fate  of  that  ticket. 
Then  they  were  overlooked  by  an  old  gentleman,  who 
feat  there  for  that  purpose,  to  see  that  they  called  them 
over  correctly  ;  lastly,  they  were  written  down,  dock- 
eted, and  filed.  Half  an  hour  elapsed  ;  about  a  hun- 
dred numbers  had  been  called  over;  two  rolls  were 
severally  taken  out — unfolded — an  astounding  clap  of 
thunder  burst  over  them — the  lightning  flashed  rud- 
dily  over  the  men  in  whose  hands  were  the  rolls — one, 
sonorously  and  in  a  peculiar  tone,  read,  "  Seventeen— 

26 


302  BLUCHER. 

thou-sand — three  hun-dred — thir-ti-five  ;"  a  dead  si- 
lence for  an  instant  ensued  ;  the  other  man  opened  his 
fold,  and,  with  a  thundering  voice,  shouted,  "  Thirty- 
thousand  pounds  ! !  God  prosper  the  possessor  or  pos- 
sessors !"  His  sight  failed  him,  he  sank  back  amid 
the  deafening  cheers  which  usually  follow  the  annun- 
ciation of  any  of  the  grand  prizes. 

He  was  now  worth  thirty-two  thousand  pounds. 
He  married  the  widow  of  a  ci-devant  lord  mayor.  He 
speculated  in  the  funds  with  success.  He  engaged  in 
co-partnership  as  a  drysalter.  He  prospered  enor- 
mously. He  took  a  house  in  Bloomsbury  Square, 
kept  his  carriage,  footmen,  with  all  the  paraphernalia 
of  opulence.  He  is  now  niggardly  and  close  fisted ; 
he  grudges  a  shilling ;  but  his  wife  has  stunned  him 
out  of  attending  any  longer  to  his  business.  He  is 
now  a  fat  pursy  alderman,  his  eyes  almost  squeezed 
out  of  his  head,  has  the  gout  fashionably  twice  a  year, 
in  humble  imitation  of  my  Lord  Liverpool  and  Mr.  Can- 
ning, and  expects  to  be  elected  lord  mayor  in  two  years' 
time.  Such  is  an  abstract,  no  matter  how  obtained, 
of  the  life  of  my  new  master,  Sir  Diggory  Drysalt. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

Being  a  dramatic  Exhibition  of  opulent  Noble-mindedness 

"  How  d'ye  do,  Parson  Writhetext  ?" 

"  Most  profoundly  obedient,  Sir  Diggory,  how  is 
your  worship  ?" 

"  Pretty  tolerable,  pretty  tolerable.  Rather  subject 
to  the  gout,  sir ;  much  the  same,  sir,  as  my  Lord  Liver- 
pool." 

"  Eh !  eh !  Great  men  have  sympathies  in  common 
with  each  other,  I  perceive,  Sir  Diggory  1" 

"  Why,  I  suppose  you  are  right,  then,  my  good  sir. 
It's  been  often  thought  I'm  a  good  deal  like  the  earl  in 
mind  and  body." 


BLUCHER.  SOS 

<c  Happy  to  hear  it,  sir — happy — "  and  poor  Writhe- 
text's  innate  honesty  would  not  let  him  get  any  further 
with  a  palpable,  a  gross  deception. 

"  But,  parson,  I'm  come  about  that  'ere  dog  of  your's, 
that  you  brought  to  church  yesterday  afternoon.  Whip 
me,  if  it  wasn't  in  my  head  all  the  afternoon.  Fine 
animal,  my  dear  sir  V 

"  Noble  fellow,  Sir  Diggory  !     Glad  you  like  him." 
"  Why  right,  you're  very  right.     Always   coincide 
with  those  above  you.     What  do  you  ask  for  him  V 

"What  do  I  ask  for  him,  your  worship?  Didn't  say 
I'd  part  with  him,  Sir  Diggory." 

"  Ay,  ay,  all's  one  for  that,  I  want  him.  He's  hit 
my  fancy  wonderfully,  that's  enough  for  you.  What's 
your  price  f" 

"Indeed,  your  worship — "  simpering. 
"  Out  with  it,  out  with  it,  my  dear  sir  !     What  d'ye 
ask  for  it?" 

"  Why,  Sir  Diggory,  'pon  my  word,  haven't  given  it 
a  moment's  consideration." 

"  Fal-lal,  sir  !  I  want  the  dog,  and,  thank  Provi- 
dence, can  afford  to  pay  for  it  indifferently  well. 
Name  your  sum,  sir  !"  and  he  took  out  a  handful  of 
gold,  silver,  and  copper.  Poor  Writhetext's  eyes  wa- 
tered, he  pulled  me  to  him,  and  began  unconsciously  to 
fondle  me. 

"  D ye,  parson !     D'ye    think  I  want  to  steal 

your  dog  ?" 

*'  God  forbid,  your  worship  !  Only — only — I  cannot 
part  with  him,  your  worship." 

"  Not  part  with  him,  when  I !  Sir  Diggory  Drysalt! ! 
alderman  ! ! !  worth  ten  thousand  a  year  ! ! !  !  want 
him  ! ! ! ! !" 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  but — but — "  and  he  was  going  to  say,  I 
was  his  only  comfort  at  home,  as  I  conjectured. 

"  Come,  come,  parson — won't  ye  part  with  him  ? 
He's  half  starved  !  Tut ! — have  such  a  huge  animal, 
rawboned,  lean !" 


304  BLUCHER, 

"  Misfortune,  Sir  Diggory,  ought  to  increase  our  love 
for  those  who  are  helpless  and  dependant  upon  us." 

"  Look  ye  here,  then,"  and  he  thrust  the  money  up 
into  his  face,  till  a  golden  guinea  touched  the  nose  of 
poor  Mr.  Writhetext.  The  effect  was  magical.  They 
thawed  away  the  ice  of  his  reluctance  instantly. 

"  How  much  would  ye  mention,  Sir  Diggory  V9 

"  How  much  ?     'Drat  it !     What  d'ye  ask  f 

"  Four  guineas,  Sir  Diggory." 

*'  Four  guineas  ! ! !" 

"  Yes,  your  worship  !" 

li  Four  guineas  ! ! ! !" 

"  Ton  my  word,  sir,  can  take  nothing  less !  My 
salary  is  not  eighty  pounds  a  year  ;  have  a  large  fam- 
ily— wife  and  nine  children  to  support." 

"  Mr.  Writhetext — what  the  d is  all  this  to  me  ?" 

"  Nothing,  sir,  only — only  you  seemed  amazed  at 
my  mentioning  the  small  sum  of  four  guineas,  when  I 
gave  three  pounds  for  him." 

"  Monster  of  extortion  !  Would  you  gain  1?.,  4$.  on 
three  pounds  !  and  you  a  parson  ?     Scollop  me  !" 

"  I  did  not  ask  you  to  buy  him,  Sir  Diggory." 

"You  did  not  ask  me,  sir !  Would  you  presume  to 
insult  me,  sir!  ! !" 

"  Heaven  forbid,  that  I,  a  clergyman,  should  insult 
any  one.     Good-day,  Sir  Diggory  !" 

M  Good-day,  d'ye  say  ?  Come  here  ;  I've  not  done 
with  you  yet.     Four  pounds,  ye  asked,  eh  ?" 

"  No,  Sir  Diggory,  I  asked  four  guineas." 

"  The  d you  did  !     It's  ghastly  exorbitant !" 

11  Cannot  help  that,  sir." 

"  Well,"  fumbling  about,  "  what  do  you  say  to  four 
pounds  two  shillings  V* 

"  Sorry  I  can't  take  it,  your  worship." 

"  Sure  of  that  ?  Why,  d'ye  know  that  it  takes 
twelve  large  pieces  of  new  copper  to  make  a  shilling  ?" 

"  Therefore  I  shall  lose  twenty-four  of  them  if  I  ac- 
cede to  your  proposal,  Sir  Diggory." 

*•  'Sbloodj  sir !"  replied  the  knight,  confusedly,  caught 


BLUCHER.  305 

in  his  own  trap.     "  Will  you  let  him  be  mine  for  four 
pounds,  two  shillings,  and  sixpence  ?" 

"  No,  your  worship." 

4  What  the  d — e  !    A  parson  so  exorbitant !  so  cov- 
etous ! !  so  mean! ! !" 

"  Were  it  not  that  my  cloth  will  not  allow  me  to  re- 
venge an  insult,  you  should  not  go  on  thus,  Sir  Dig- 
gory,"  replied  Writhetext,  spiritedly. 

"  Here,  then  ! — take  ye  four  pounds  three  shillings." 

u  Once  more,  your  worship,  /  will  take  four  guineas 
and  nothing  less.1'' 

"  Take  this  then,"  chucking  the  money  in  his  lap, 
"  and  go,  get  ready  a  sermon  against  covetousness." 
I  was  handed  to  the  knight,  (feeling  heartily  inclined 
to  snap  off  the  calf  of  his  leg,)  and  led  into  the  carriage. 
Away  we  bowled  to  Bloomsbury  Square. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

Description. — A  taciturn  Footman. — A  Dialogue. — Discussion  of  rny 
Worth,  &c. 

At  length  the  carriage  stopped  opposite  a  large  dingy- 
hued  mansion  in  Bloomsbury  Square.  A  long  shining 
brass  plate,  running  half  across  the  door,  displayed  in 
Roman  capitals,  "  sir  diggory  drysalt,  knt." 

The  footman  stepped  down  from  his  standing  board, 
and  dealt  such  an  astounding  number  of  blows  with  the 
knocker,  as  half  stunned  my  plebeian  ears.  The  door 
was  presently  opened  by  a  fat  bullet-headed  porter, 
with  green-fringed  livery.  Johnny  (the  cant  name  for  a 
man  servant)  then  opened  the  door,  let  down  the  steps, 
and  put  out  his  arm,  to  support  his  master,  while  he 
achieved-a  descent  from  his  carriage.  He  then  sum- 
moned me  to  follow  him ;  I  obeyed  him  reluctantly, 
and  jumped  sullenly  on  the  pavement.  As  soon  as  we 
had  got  inside,  the  door  closed,  and  Sir  Diggory  re- 
mained standing  on  the  mat,  inquiring  of  the  porter, 
who  sat  in  his  little  box,  where  lived  the  most  cheap 

26* 


306  BLUCHER. 

carpenter — for  he  wanted  a  kennel  made  for  me :  then 
for  the  tory  warehouse ;  and  commissioned  him  to  pur- 
chase, as  cheaply  as  possible,  a  good-sized  collar,  and 
to  get  his  name  put  on  it,  with  that  of  the  dog,  which 
he  named  to  be  "  Fackins."  When  he  had  made  an 
end  of  speaking,  he  walked  up  stairs,  commanding  me 
to  follow  him.  The  footman  was  at  the  parlour  door, 
answering  some  questions  of  his  mistress. 

"  You  know  the  street,  Charles  V 

"  Yes,  my  lady." 

"  Not  that  on  the  left-hand  side,  you  know,"" 

"  No,  my  lady." 

"  Be  very  particular  about  the  price," 

"  Yes,  my  lady." 

"  Don't  give  too  much,  Charles." 

"  No,  my  lady." 

"  You'll  be  sure  to  remember  all  I've  told  you,  eh  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  lady." 

"  Remember  you  do  not  forget  it,  Charles." 

"  No,  my  lady." 

"  Now  you  may  go,  Charles." 

"  Yes,  my  lady." 

Then  the  steps  of  his  lord  were  heard. 

"  Stay,  Charles — there  is  some  one  on  the  stairs- 
is  there  not  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  lady." 

«'  Is't  Sir  Diggory  ?" 

He  looked  down.     "  Yes,  my  lady." 

"  By  himself,  Charles  ?" 

"  No,  my  lady." 

He  was  then  met  by  the  lord  of  the  mansion. 

"  How  now,  fellow,  where  ar't  going?" 

*'  To  Lollypop-street,  Sir  Diggory." 

"  Where's  that,  Charles  ?" 

"  On  the  left-hand  side,  Sir  Diggory." 

"  Who  are  you  going  to  f  • 

"  To  Mr.  Swillgin,  Sir  Diggory." 

"  Eh — the  spirit  merchant  ?* 

M  Yes,  Sir  Diggory," 


BLUCHER.  307 

11  What 're  ye  going  for  V* 

"  Bottle  of  Hudson'' s  convenient,  Sir  Diggory  ?" 

u  Ay,  indeed  !     Pray,  fellow,  what's  that  V 

"  Cherry  brandy,  Sir  Dig — " 

•'  Who  for  ? — who  for  ?  Cherry  brandy ! — who 
for?" 

"My  lady,  your  worship." 

"  Well — I  suppose — I  suppose  you  must  go  Charles" 
— and  he  grabbled  in  his  breeches  pocket. 

"Yes,  Sir  Diggory." 

He  then  went  back,  and  opened  the  dining  room  door 
— "  Sir  Diggory,  my  lady."  The  knight  and  myself 
walked  in — the  servant  went  away,  and  closed  the  door. 
There  was  a  vast  deal  of  heavy  clumsy  finery  in  this 
dining  room.  On  the  lofty  ceiling  were  huge  carica- 
tures of  angels,  cherubs,  &c,  tumbling  a  crown  on  the 
head  of  a  fat  little  man,  who  held  in  his  hand  a  sword 
bigger  than  himself.  Probably  it  was  in  anticipation 
of  his  election  to  the  office  of  chief  magistrate.  My 
lady — a  tall,  corpulent,  red-faced,  good-natured-looking 
woman,  lay  stretched  on  a  Grecian  sofa,  reading  the 
playbill.  "Heighho,  ma  dare! — Meddim  Rowze  De 
Begnis  don't  sing  to-night !" 

"  Can't  help  that,  my  love.  What's  madam — what 
d'ye  call  her — to  me  ?" 

"  A  remarkable  fine  woman,  ma  dare — and  a  most 
diwine  singer  ?  Oh  !  'tis  werry  delicious  to  hear  her 
sing !  What  shall  I  do  with  myself  all  the  eve- 
ning?" 

"  Drink  cherry  brandy,  ma'am." 

"Ehe!"  rising  swiftly — "  ehe — Sir  Diggory! — 
what  diw  you  mean,  Sir  Diggory  ?" 

**  Oh !  why,  mayhap  I'm  wrong,  and  ought  to  have 
said,  Hudson's  convenient,  my  lady." 

"  It's  a  very  great  piece  o'  assurance,  my  love,  for 
you  to  stop  my  servant ! — cannot  send  him  for  a  bottle 
of  medicinal  cordial  for  the  rheumatiz." 

"  Heigh,  ma'am  ! — rheumatiz  ! — why,  how  long  is't 
since  you've  been  bless'd  with  that,  my  love  ?" 


308  BLUCHER. 

"  For  this  month  past,  my  dear." 

"  Then  you  have  told  a  most  abominable  bouncer, 
my  sweet  love  !  For  last  night,  when  you  axed  me  to 
take  you  to  the  opera  house— you  said  you  was  never 
better  in  your  whole  life,  my  love  !" 

My  lady  looked  wondrously  confused,  but  said  no- 
thing. "Never  mind  it,  dear  Jennie!  Look  ye! — 
I've  bought  a  fine  Newfoundland  dog  this  afternoon." 

"  What  did  ye  give  for  him  V 

"  Would  you  believe  it  ? — I  shall  be  ruined  by  my 
extravagance  some  of  these  days — I  gave  4Z.  4s." 

"  Ruined,  my  dear  !  Ye've  gotten  him  cheap  enow, 
in  all  conscience." 

"  But  then  ye  forget  there's  the  expense  of  keeping 
him — wictuals — kennel — collar." 

"  Don't  look  blue  about  it,  my  love  !  Ye  should 
have  thought  of  all  that  before." 

M  Ha,  but,  Jennie,  if  ye  had  but  known  what  a  world 
o'  trouble  and  labour  it  cost  me  to  earn  four  guineas 
twenty-one  years  since." 

"  Whatever  it  did  then,  Sir  Diggory,  you're  rolling 
in  gold  now !— and  that's  enough.  But  I'll  ring  the 
bell,  and  order  the  dog  to  be  well  fed  below.  Stay — 
what's  his  name,  my  dear?" 

"  4  Fackins,'  my  love,  which  was  the  name  of  your 
uncle." 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

Description  of  Sir  Diggory's  Family,  and  a  Visit  from  my  old 
Master,  Dr.  McDrenchem. 

There  were  four  men  servants,  including  the  butler, 
coachman,  porter,  and  footman  ;  and  four  women,  in- 
cluding the  cook,  chambermaid,  housemaid,  and  ser- 
vant of  all-work — in  Sir  Diggory's  establishment.  All 
but  the  latter  of  each  sex  led  a  most  easy  and  lux- 
urious life:  there,  also,  I  lived,  in  a  very  plentiful 
manner,  my  occupation  being  only  to  run  after  the  car- 


BLUCHER.  309 

riage  on  fine  days.  The  kitchen,  with  its  jovial  in- 
mates, was  always  merry.  And  I  heard  many  curious 
discussions  on  the  affairs  of  my  master.  "  I  zay, 
Tom,"  asked  the  fat  porter,  "  canzt  thee  tell  a  man 
whuoy  a  mistress'  feaz  be  always  so  red?  I'fegs, 
her  noaz  would  light  a  body  in  the  dark,  I'm  a  think- 
mg." 

"  Ffackins,"  replied  the  cook,  briskly,  for  she  was  a 
favourite  with  Lady  Drysalt,  "  you're  very  imperdent, 
Mister  Porter,  to  medel  with  the  consarns  of  us  ladies  ! 
Face  always  so  red!  Quotha! — why  art  thou  so 
fat  and  blowsy  V  "  Caz  you  zee,  cooky,"  replied  the 
good-natured  fellow,  "  ye  make  zo  many  good  things 
zweet  ajid  zweeter,  that  a  gentleman  cannot  help  fat- 
tening on  them.  If  I  was  one  o'  your  long,  lean,  lanky 
pantalooners — with  a  sunkun  face,  with  zkin  like  zolid 
parchment,  and  bonezes  poking  thro'  my  cloathz,  as 
'twere — I  ax  ya  pardon,  but  it  would  be  all  laid  to 
your  door,  mem." 

"  Ye  are  a  good-nater'd  fellow,  ay,  that  ye  are,  Mister 
Porter,  and  shall  never  want  anything  'at  'ere  way  as 
long  as  Nancy  Bastewell  rules  over  the  kitchen." 

"  Ye  were  asking,  Maister  Porter,"  said  the  Scotch 
butler,  "  what  for  the  lady's  face  and  nose  were  so  very 
reed?  Hem!  hem!  Na,  na — noo  a  thing  on't,  I'll 
no  say  a  word  o'  what  I  meant !" 

"  Is  not  Sir  Diggory  a  main  rich  man  ?"  inquired  the 
porter. 

"  I'll  na  be  dooting  it  at  all,  sair,  an'  what's  mair 
than  that,  he's  wise  and  carefu'  as  though  he  had  na 
sax  pounds  i'  the  warld  !" 

"  I'm  wery  happy  to  tell  ye  something,  gents,"  said 
the  footman.  "  I  was  a  little  while  since  going  past 
Mr.  McSneezer's  the  tobacconist ;  he  called  me  in, 
and  said  to  me — said  he,  '  I  say,  Charles,  what  a  most 
abominable  old  blackberry  fellow  is  your  master  !' 
"  '  Ay,  indeed,'  said  I ;  '  and  pray  why  so  V  says  I. 
"  '  Because,'  said  he,  '  this  morning  he  called  in,  and 
asked  for  some  o'  the  best  rappee  snuff.     And,  though 


310  •         BLUCHER. 

he  only  bought  two  ounces  an'  a  quarter,  he  higgled  and 
haggled,  and  sniggled  and  snaggled  for  the  odd  half- 
penny !' " 

"  I'll  na  be  dooting  but  Sir  Diggory  had  some  soun' 
pheelosophical  reason  at  the  bottom  o't."  j 

u '  Of  course  he  had.  There's  a  most  excellent  phi- 
losophy in  the  saving  of  a  halfpenny ! — ha,  ha,  ha  J"     ' 

The  conversation  was  suddenly  interrupted  by  the 
arrival  of  some  one  at  the  street  door,  and  I,  for  a 
change  of  scene,  trotted  up  stairs  into  the  dining  room, 
where  sat  Sir  Diggory  and  Lady  Drysalt.  Presently 
the  door  was  opened — I  turned  my  head  from  contem- 
plating the  glowing  and  brilliant  fire,  to  see,  whom  ? — 
Gideon  McDrenchem,  Esquire,  my  ci-devant  master ! 
My  teeth  chattered  in  my  head.  I  attempted  to  sneak 
behind  the  sofa — but,  alas,  he  soon  discovered  me. 

"  Heigh,  Sir  Diggory  ! — Is  na  that  a  maist  wicked 
animal  ?" 

"  No,  no,  sir,  1  cannot  say  so.  He  has  always  be- 
haved himself  to  me  and  my  family  in  a  most  dogly 
manner." 

"  But,  did  na  ye  fin'  him  ower  nice  about  his  vict- 
uals ?" 

"  We  never  make  a  practice  of  watching  the  vict- 
uals of  our  domestics,  even  of  a  dog,  Mr.  McDrench- 
em," replied  Lady  Drysalt,  proudly.  The  apothecary 
changed  his  topics. 

"  How's  a'  wi'  ye  the  day,  Sir  Diggory  ?" 

"  Not  so  well  as  I  could  wish,  sir.  Not  so  well  as 
I  could  wish,  sir." 

"  Might  I  make  bold  to  ask  the  peticlar  ailing  V 

"  A  twinge  of  the  gout,  my  dear  sir !  I  still  take 
after  my  Lord  Liverpool,  my  good  sir.  Our  sedentary 
occupation  favours  the  inroads  of  this  malady." 

M  Dootless,  dootless,  sair.  It's  an  unco  pest  to  great 
men." 

■  Nay,  I  take  it  to  be  a  test  oJ  great  and  shining 
abilities." 

n  Doctor,  ye  are  a  most  discerning  man.     I  have 


BLUCHER.  311 

alw?ys  found  huge  benefit  from  your  professional  ad- 
vice." 

"  I  greatly  thank  ye,  sair.  My  poor  services — 
ahem — hem  !  You  look  pale,  Sir  Diggory  !" — and  he 
felt  his  pulse  in  a  most  knowing  manner. 

"  You  had  better  take  a  saline  draught  or  two,  Sir 
Diggory." 

"  I  really — really  cannot  afford  it,  my  dear  doctor  ! 
Bankrupt,  bankrupt,  I  assure  you  !" 

"  Sair,  ye  canna  be  thinking  I  only  visit  you  for 
what  I  can  get !  Impossible,  Sir  Diggory ! !  It's 
clear  out  o'  my  nature  ! !  !  I  would  attend  ye  tenderly, 
an   ye  were  the  poorest  beggar  i'  the  workhouse !" 

This  was  too  much.  I  ran  howling  out  of  the  room. 
What  monstrous  hypocrisy ! 

However,  I  soon  grew  tired  of  my  life  at  Sir  Dig- 
gory's.  It  was  dull  and  monotonous.  He  and  his 
lady  would  sit  opposite  each  other  for  hours,  nodding 
in  the  most  polite  manner.  If  I  happened  to  disturb 
the  former,  I  was  sure  to  be  saluted  with  a  growling 
curse;  if  the  latter,  with  a  querulous  malediction, 
though  couched  in  gentler  terms.  But  the  day  was 
speedily  to  dawn  of  brilliant  brightness.  Little  did  I 
know  of  the  magnificent  exaltation  preparing  for  me. 

Here  let  me  moralize. 

I  cannot  presume  to  intrude  my  dry  reflections  on 
the  reader.     To  whom,  for  the  present,  I  bid  adieu  ! 

CHAPTER    XVIII. 

Containing  a  diurnal  Sample  of  High  Life. — And  a  Note  of 
Preparation. 

The  routine  of  the  daily  life  of  such  a  man  as  Sir 
Diggory  Drysalt  must,  I  conceive,  be  rather  interest- 
ing. I  shall  therefore  trace  him  through  one  day,  as  a 
sample  of  all  the  rest,  except  Sundays.  He  rose  gen- 
erally about  half  past  nine  o'clock,  though  my  lady  did 


312  BLUCHER. 

not  leave  her  chamber  till  eleven.  When  he  entered 
the  parlour,  breakfast  was  ready  ;  consisting  of  coffee, 
hot  rolls,  and  slices  of  ham,  &c. ;  of  which  latter  he 
sometimes  gave  me  a  fraction  of  an  inch,  when  in  a 
particularly  good  humour.  He  then  perused  the  Old 
Times  paper.  When  the  edible  paraphernalia  were 
removed,  he  ordered  his  carriage  or  chariott,  and 
drove  to  the  Stock  Exchange,  the  Royal  Exchange, 
Lloyd's  Coffee  House,  &c,  &c. ;  buzzing  and  strut- 
ting about  at  all  the  public  commercial  places  to  which 
he  had  access,  although,  in  fact,  he  never  transacted 
any  business,  or  made  a  purchase  of  stock  to  the 
amount  of  one  shilling.  His  chief  occupation  would 
be  to  listen  to  the  small  talk  of  Mr.  Rothschild,  and 
other  great  moneyed  men,  with  his  hands  thrust  into 
his  hind  coat  pockets,  sucking  in  the  precious  words 
with  extreme  avidity.  Then  he  would  bowl  away  to 
Lloyd's,  and  retail,  to  such  of  the  merchants  that  thought 
it  worth  their  while  to  listen  to  hm,  for  the  want  of 
something  better  to  do,  what  scraps  he  had  collected 
at  'change.  For  example  :  "Security  stocks — made  a 
vast  purchase — at  least  95.000  three  per  cents — Snap- 
pern  Schemer  sunk  eleven  thousand  pounds  in  Spanish 
bonds — BitenO  Brokerage  kicked  out  of  the  'change — 
Fleece  Greenhorn  broke — cleared  out — flat  as  a  floun- 
der— laid  up  on  the  shelf,"  &c,  &c,  &c. 

When  all  these  topics  were  exhausted,  Sir  Diggory 
would  go  up  into  the  auction  mart,  bid  some  trifle  on  a 
small  country  estate,  or  cheapen  a  caricature  of  the 
ministers.  It  would  be  by  this  time  nearly  four  o'clock. 
What  of  it  ?  Drive  home,  because  everybody  else  is 
going  thitherward — but  look  in  first  to  invite  Mr.  Dep- 
uty Donkey  to  dinner ;  loiter  over  dinner,  dessert,  &c, 
till  my  lady  is  pleased  to  let  him  come  up  to  tea ; 
chatter  over  that  till  eight  or  nine  o'clock ;  then  sup- 
per ;  then  give  orders  about  his  horses,  coach,  &c,  and 
rate  everybody  for  any  extra  disbursements  of  cash, 
&c.  \  then  retire  to  bed.  On  Sundays,  he  tumbled 
about  in  bed  till   church  time ;  then,  for   an  airing, 


BLUCHER.  313 

drove  to  church  about  sermon  time;  came  home  to 
dinner ;  slept  all  the  afternoon ;  then  tea ;  read  the 
papers  in  the  evening ;  and  went  to  bed  about  nine 
o'clock.  One  morning,  my  lady  planned  a  grand  sup- 
per party  and  ball.  They  were  both  employed  a  full 
morning  in  hammering  out  the  following  invitation  to 
an  illustrious  guest : — 

"  Sir  Diggory  and  Lady  Drysalt  beg  most  humbly 
to  present  their  obsequious  compliments  and  profound 
respects  to  their  graces  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of 
Dunderwhistle,  and  to  solicit  the  extreme  honour  of 
being  favoured  with  the  privilege  of  their  company 
to  supper  and  a  ball  on  any  day  their  graces  may  deem 
most  convenient  themselves. 

"  P.S.  Have  the  honour  to  inform  your  graces,  that 
her  Grace  of  Grizzlepate  has  obligingly  promised  her 
company. 

"  N.B.  Their  graces  may  depend  upon  the  absence 
of  Sir  Slimpurse  ShufHecard. 

"  The  privilege  of  an  answer  is  requested." 

The  following  was  the  answer  returned  to  this  cu- 
rious epistle  ;  it  was  dictated  by  his  duchess,  (for  he 
himself  was  a  simple,  good-natured,  eccentric,  hen- 
pecked husband,)  since,  had  the  duke  been  allowed  to 
follow  the  bent  of  his  own  inclination,  he  would  have 
written  in  a  very  different  strain. 

"  The  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Dunderwhistle  will  do 
themselves  the  honour  of  waiting  upon  Sir  Diggory  and 
Lady  Dry-salt." 

A  vast  number  of  other  fashionables  were  invited. 
Why,  it  is  next  to  impossible  to  particularize  the 
Lady  Dowager  Gawky,  and  her  eleven  "lean,  thin-por- 
tioned daughters,  which  "  one  couldn't  be  off  of  invi- 
ting," as  my  lady  said ;  Mr.  Counsellor  Graybeard, 
wife,  and  two  sons  ;  Lord  Merrytune  ;  Lord  Squander  ; 
the  Honourable  Hotbrain  Cockspur ;  (of  whom  partic- 
ular mention  was  made  in  the  Monitor,  as  an  unques- 
tionable authority  of  Theodore  Hook ;)  Lady  Smirk ; 

27 


314  BLUCHER. 

Lady  Show ;  Lady  Trail ;  Lord  Toper ;  Lord  Guzzle, 
Sic. j  &c,  &c. 

The  awful  day  at  length  arrived.  The  house 
seemed  about  to  be  turned  upside  down.  The  cook, 
red  hot  and  impetuous  ;  (can  my  pate  ever  forget  the 
blow  she  gave  it  with  the  silver  ladle,  because  I  ven- 
tured to  snap  up  a  new  potato  ?)  the  footmen  hurrying — 
flurrying— running  hither — jumping  thither  ;  the  but- 
ler making  more  haste  than  good  speed,  smashing  a 
bottle  of  Burgundy,  cursing  his  own  clumsiness,  and 
instantly  sending  another,  by  way  of  corollary,  to  bear 
it  company.  Sir  Diggory  hopping  in  and  out  of  every 
chamber  in  his  house  ;  fanning,  fretting,  fidgeting,  my 
lady  screaming  for  her  turban  from  the  milliner's ;  my 
unlucky  self  sneaking  about,  hissed,  kicked,  and  brow- 
beaten, plunged  into  a  huge  bucket  of  freezing  cold 
water ;  then  into  a  tub  of  scalding  hot  water ;  then 
wiped,  and  rubbed,  and  combed  ;  merciful  power  !  how 
did  I  survive  it  all  ?  To  me  it  was  a  perfect  pugatory, 
worse  than  ever  was  experienced  by  a  shivery  Roman 
Catholic  ;  a  very  Pandemonium. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

Containing  a  Sketch  of  High  Life  and  Manners. 

Let  me  conduct  my  readers  to  the  grand  sitting  room. 
It  was  lighted  up  with  superb  glittering  chandeliers, 
adorned  with  pictures ;  a  grand  piano  standing  here,  a 
harpsichord  there  ;  Sir  Diggory  on  the  right  side  of  the 
mirrored  fireplace,  rubbing  and  twisting  his  thumbs  and 
fingers  together  ;  my  lady  opposite,  fluttering,  fanning, 
and  sighing  with  fatigue  ;  mine  ownself,  in  capital  trim, 
with  a  scarlet  collar  round  my  neck,  and  combed  reg- 
ularly from  top  to  toe,  squatting  in  the  centre  of  the  rug. 

The  door  was  suddenly  swung  open  wide  enough  to 
admit  a  troop  of  cavalry.  The  footman  with  astound- 
ing loudness  announced — 


BLUCHER.  315 

"  Their  graces,  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Dunder- 
whistle." 

Up  leaped  Sir  Diggory,  almost  overbalancing  him- 
self; up  started  my  lady  ;  both  bowing  and  courtesying 
— jumping  and  smiling.  Her  grace  walks  up  stairs 
with  my  lady ;  his  grace  squats  down  with  my  master. 

"  Eh,  Drysalt ! — how  is't  1  first  here  !  Ecod,  I  don't 
think  I  ever  sinned  in  this  manner  before." 

"  Sir,  your  grace  has  come  punctually  !  Mean  no 
offence,  your  grace — hem,  ahem  !" 

"  Don't  think  you  do,  Drysalt,"  replied  his  grace, 
wiping  his  forehead  with  his  perfumed  muslin  handker- 
chief.    "  Horrid  hot,  isn't !" 

"  Horrid,  horrid,  horrid  hot,  your  grace.  Was  your 
grace  at  the  house  last  night  ?" 

"  I  slept  there,  I  believe,  about  a  couple  of  hours. 
Faith  !  the  very  sight  of  ray  lord  chancellor  is  enough 
to  close  one's  eyes  to  sleep." 

"Learned  man  that,  your  grace;  a  very  clever 
man,  your  grace  ;  a  vastly  learned  man,  your  grace, 
isn't  he  ?" 

"  Never  said  he  wasn't,  Drysalt ;  but  no  man  can  be 
learned  without  being  a  great  proser,  to  my  thinking 
—eh  r 

"Your  grace  is  perfectly  correct.  Latin,  Greek, 
mathematics — pugh  !  what  are  they,  and  all  that  sort 
of  things,  your  grace  ?" 

"  Et  hoc  genus  omne — as  we  used  to  say  at  Eton. 
But  beg  pardon — do,  i'faith,  Drysalt !  a  thousand  par- 
dons. Haven't  learned  that  sort  o'  thing,  I  suppose, 
Drysalt,  eh?" 

"  No,  your  grace,  I  never  heeded  all  that  lingo — no, 
not  I,  your  grace.  Wasting  time  to  no  purpose,  your 
grace." 

"  In  the  right  on't,  I  assure  ye.  Have  you  seen  my 
Rattlesnort  ?" 

"  Rattlesnort,  your  grace — " 

"  Rattlesnort,  Sir  Diggory.  All  the  world  knows 
my  horse  Ratt — " 

o2 


316  BLUCHER. 

"  Oh,  ay — Rattlesnort !  A  thousand  pardons,  your 
grace — saw  ye  ride  him  beautifully  last  month,  over 
Hounslow — " 

His  grace  burst  into  an  uncontrollable  fit  of  laughter. 

"  Eh,  eh,  eh  !  Ye  must  be  drunk,  Drysalt !  saw  me 
ride  Rattlesnort  ? — ha,  ha,  ha ! — why,  he's  only  been 
mine  three  days — he  hasn't,  'pon  my  life !  Bought 
him  at  Tattersall's  for  a  trifle — some  three  thousand 
guineas." 

"  Indeed,  your  grace  !"  replied  Sir  Diggory,  blush- 
ing and  stammering  in  unutterable  confusion ;  "  then  I 
suppose  I  mistook  ye,  your  grace." 

"  Don't  doubt  it  at  all,  man.  Who  comes  here  ?  a 
thundering  rat-tat !" 

A  dead  silence  enSued.  Presently  the  door  opened 
— the  footman  appeared — a  voice  was  heard — 

"Mr.  Counsellor  and  Madam  Graybeard,  and  the 
Masters  Graybeard  !" 

The  duke  nodded  slightly,  and  walked  to  the  pier- 
glasses,  where  he  stood  adjusting  his  cravat  and  dia- 
mond brooch.  Madam  Graybeard  retired  to  change 
her  dress.  Mr.  Counsellor  Graybeard  was  a  tall,  thin, 
pale-faced,  acute-featured  man,  with  keen  dark  eyes, 
like  those  of  a  lynx.  As  soon  as  he  sat  down,  he  pulled 
out  a  small  packet  of  paper,  took  out  a  double  reading 
glass,  and  was  soon  deeply  engaged,  conning  over  a 
brief  for  aught  I  know.  The  young  gentlemen  thrust 
their  hands  into  their  breeches  pockets,  and  wandered 
about  the  room,  looking  on  the  costly  furniture  and 
superb  embellishments,  lost  in  admiration.  At  length 
the  youngest  took  a  fancy  to  me,  and  we  began  romp- 
ing together  very  good-naturedly. 

"  Be  quiet,  sir !"  thundered  his  father,  sternly.  The 
duke  turned  round,  and  a  sneering  smile  passed  over 
his  countenance.  He  then  entered  into  conversation 
with  his  host,  in  a  low  tone. 

"What,  in  the  name  of  all  that's  good,  did  ye  ask 
that  bore  Graybeard  here  ?" 

"My  wife  would  have  him,"  replied  Sir  Diggory, 


BUTCHER.  317 

whispering  in  the  ear  of  the  noble   duke  ;  "  couldn't 
persuade  her  not,  your  grace." 

"  Did  you  hear  how  he  foamed  at  the  mouth  in  the 
lower  house,  last  night  ?  1  don't  like  to  be  near  that 
man,  Drysalt — shoot  me  if  I  do." 

"  Prodigously  sorry,  my  lord  duke !  If  I  had  thought 
so,  i'fackins  I  would  not  have — " 

"  It  can't  be  help'd  now,  you  know,  but  mind  you 
don't  introduce  him  particularly  to  me — you  understand 
me,  Drysalt  '?" 

"  Perfectly,  your  grace." 

The  company  now  began  to  throng  in.  Mr.  Gray- 
beard  removed  into  the  farthest  corner,  and  seemed 
lost  in  intense  thought.  I  don't  know  how.  it  was; 
but  there  was  something  in  him  that  struck  me  exceed- 
ingly. It  was  not  a  love,  but  a  fear  of  him.  He  seemed 
above  every  one.  He  seemed  to  look  at  rank  and 
riches  as  bubbles  and  trifles.  I  crept  by  his  side.  By- 
and-by  he  took  out  a  silver  pencil  case,  and  com- 
menced writing  rapidly.  He  became  furious  as  he  pro- 
ceeded. His  hand  went  over  the  paper  so  swiftly,  that 
he  would  hardly  allow  himself  time  to  form  the  letters. 
He  drew  together  the  muscles  of  his  mouth,  his  eyes 
flashed  with  fury ;  his  teeth  were  clenched ;  he  mut- 
tered fiercely,  "  Oh,  they  shall  repent,  it  bitterly  !"  I 
grew  frightened,  and  crept  away.  The  duke,  in  an- 
other part  of  the  room,  had  collected  round  him  an 
admiring  circle,  to  whom  he  was  discussing  the  merits 
of  Madam  Catalini. 

"  Ton  my  honour,  she's  a  divine  creature — next  to 
my  Maria  Amaryllis,  shoot  me  if  I  don't  love  her  dear- 
est of  anybody  in  the  world — not  excepting  her  grace," 
he  added,  whispering  cautiously. 

"  Hang  it,  there's  a  compass  in  her  voice,"  quoth  my 
Lord  Toper. 

"  A  volume,  you  mean,  my  lord,"  interrupted  the 
duke  ;  "  and  a  richness,  a  ripeness,  a  mellowness." 

"  She's  an  angel,  as  I'm  a  sinner,"  replied  Cockspur. 
27* 


318  BLUCHER. 

"  She's  like  a  nightingale  piping  among  the  trees  on 
a  fine  moonlight  night,"  said  his  grace. 

"  Or  a  thrush,"  quoth  Cockspur. 

"  Or  rather  a  blackbird,"  replied  Lord  Toper. 

"  She's  all — she's  all,"  interrupted  Sir  Diggory. 

"  Your  grace — my  lords,  we  are  summoned  to  din- 
ner." Down  went  all  but  Counsellor  Geaybeard.  I 
stopped  behind  to  watch  him.  He  seemed  not  to  no- 
tice the  departure  of  the  company,  but  continued  wri- 
ting as  quickly  as  ever. 

Presently  a  footman  came. 

"Please  you,  sir,  dinner  is  waiting,  sir,  if  you 
please,  sir." 

"  Is  it  ? — tell  them  I  will  be  there  in  two  seconds." 
Away  went  the  footman  ;  Graybeard  went  deeper  and 
deeper  into  abstraction.  I  heard  him  mutter,  almost 
gasping  at  intervals,  "  Sacrilege  ! — blood  ! — thunder  ! 
— knell  of  despair ! — ruin  !" 

The  footman  came  again,  and  repeated  his  errand. 

"I  cannot  come!"  replied  Graybeard,  fiercely. 
Down  went  the  man ;  but  the  counsellor  did  go,  and 
that  instantly.  I  followed  in  his  course,  hoping  to  slip 
unobserved  into  the  dining  room,  and  come  in  for  a  few 
choice  morceaux  ;  but  I  was  whipped  up  stairs  by  a 
man  servant  with  a  towel,  before  I  had  reached  the 
door.  I  went  up  to  the  door  I  had  quitted,  laid  myself 
sullenly  down  on  the  mat,  and,  as  I  suppose,  went  to 
sleep,  so  that  I  cannot  give  any  account  of  the  dinner. 


CHAPTER    XX. 

Showing  the  usual  Style  of  Women's  Gossip,  when  deserted  by  the 

Men. 

When  I  awoke,  I  found  myself  surrounded  by  ele- 
gantly dressed  ladies.  Her  grace  the  Duchess  of  Dun- 
derwhistle  sat  at  the  top,  and  next  to  her,  as  hostess, 
wa  splaced  Lady  Drysalt, 


BLUCHER.  319 

K  Permit  me  to  inquire,  my  dear  Lady  Drysalt,"  whis- 
pered one  of  the  Misses  Gawky, "  where  you  purchased 
that  charming  turban  V 

"  Much  obleeged  t'ye,  mem,  for  inquiring ;  I  pur- 
cheesed  it  at  Meddim  de  la  Fanfarmade's,  meddim." 

"  That  woman  seems  getting  into  notice,  I  believe," 
said  her  grace. 

"  I  have  aided  her  a  trifle  with  my  peetronege,  my 
lady  duchess/'  replied  Lady  Drysalt. 

"  Have  you  ever  heard  of  Urling's  lace,  my  Lady 
Trail  ?"  inquired  my  Lady  Smirke. 

"  Yes,  ey  believe  ey  have.  It  is  a  most  neat  and 
elegant  article — very  much  worn  among  the  fashion- 
ables. Ey  believe  from  all  that  ey  have  been  able 
to  hear,  that  is  of  a  very  sound  and  excellent  texture, 
my  lady,"  replied  my  Lady  Trail. 

"  Lawk,  mamma,"  commenced  one  of  the  Misses 
Gawky. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Miss  Emmeline  Emmeraldina 
Joanna  !  Do  I  not  often  tell  you,  my  love,  that  it  is  rude 
to  be  always  calling  me  mamma  in  company  ?"  inter- 
rupted the  Lady  Dowager  Gawky,  a  stout  buckramed- 
up  lady,  who  abhorred  nothing  more  than  being  publicly 
exposed  as  the  mother  of  eleven  tall  elderly-looking 
young  women.  Her  age  was  some  threescore  years  ; 
but  she  softened  it  down  gently  to  forty-seven,  and 
would  fain  appear  a  fine,  ripe,  matronly  woman ;  but 
surrounded  by  eleven  daughters  ! 

"Madam  Catalini  seemed  horribly  out  of  voice  last 
night,"  said  Lady  Show  ;  "  don't  you  think  so,  my  lady 
duchess  !" 

"  Ey  think,  indeed,  that  she  is  an  odious  singer,  and 
the  duke  is  very  absurd  to  praise  her  among  his  friends, 
(although  Heaven  knows  he  dare  not  do  it  in  my  pres- 
ence !)"  said  the  duchess,  with  great  stateliness,  "  as  a 
paragon  of  all  that  is  excellent  and  noble.  For  my 
part,  ey  see  nothing  at  all  worth  praise  in  her." 

"  Indeed,  I  cawntbut  coincide  with  your  grace,"  an- 
swered Lady  Drysalt ;  although  she  had  but  two  days 


320  BLTJCHER. 

ago,  flattered  and  extolled  the  very  same  singer  to  the 
skies ;  "  for  her  voice  seems  to  have  no  vollem,  my 
lady  duchess,"  she  continued,  regardless  of  the  smirk- 
ing and  tittering  around  her.  "  For  my  part,  I  vow  and 
declare,  your  grace,  I  would  as  soon  near  a  gashly 
scritch  owl,  or  a  hodious  urdy-gurdy.  She  skreeks — 
I  cawnt  for  the  life  o'  me  conceive  where  the  taste  of 
the  men  is  gone,  not  I." 

"  Very  eloquently  spoken,  my  lady,"  replied  barter- 
ing Lady  Show,  winking  at  the  company. 

"  You  seem  to  have  made  music  your  study  ;  as  an 
amateur,  I  mean." 

"  1'fackins,  of  course,  my  leedy  !  D'ye  think  that 
a  woman  o'  my  condeetion  would  condesceen  to  get 
my  living  by  studding  moosic? — as  an  amatoor,  of 
course — an  amatoor,  my  leedy." 

"  Ey  much  wonder  where  these  gentlemen  can  be  ?" 
inquired  her  Grace  of  Dunderwhistle. 

"  It's  an  odious  custom  among  the  men  to  stop  there 
sotting  over  their  wine,  for  all  rational  discourse  is 
banished  when  we  are  gone,"  replied  Lady  Trail. 

'*  A  most  sinful  quantity  of  wine  is  drunk,  when  by 
themselves  ;  why,  the  duke  himself  piques  himself  on 
being  a  four-bottle  man,  and  never  leaves  till  he  can 
hardly  reel  up  to  the  ladies,"  replied  Lady  Smirke, 
unmindful  of  the  indignant  frown  of  the  duchess  ;  who, 
whatever  sway  she  might  arbitrarily  exercise  at  home, 
still  had  too  much  respect  for  the  public  character  of 
tlie  duke  to  expose  his  follies  and  frailties  in  public. 
Conversation  was  now  run  dry.  They  were  quite  at 
a  standstill ;  when,  at  last,  one  of  the  Misses  Gawky, 
Miss  Sapphira,  was  prevailed  upon  to  sit  down  to  the 
music.  And  there  was  she  strumming  and  humming, 
till  the  drums  of  mine  own  ears  ached  again. 


BLUCHER.  321 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

A  tedious  and  desultory  Conversation.  —  My  sudden  Change  of 

Masters. 

Presently  the  door  was  thrown  open,  and  the  gen- 
tlemen made  their  appearance,  all  rather  flushed  and 
unsteady.  The  poor  duke  was  led  in  between  Sir 
Diggory  and  Lord  Squander,  and  laid  along  on  a  settle 
in  the  farther  part  of  the  room.  As  soon  as  he  was 
asleep,  an  animated  conversation  ensued.  Counsellor 
Graybeard,  who  seemed  under  unnatural  excitement, 
was  at  once  bold,  brilliant,  and  energetic  ;  and  I  lis- 
tened with  great  attention  to  a  discussion  of  the  ques- 
tion of  Catholic  Emancipation.  I  however,  although 
I  have  by  me  copious  notes  of  it,  will  not  obtrude  it 
upon  my  readers.  At  length,  when  the  topic  was 
exhausted,  their  conversation  turned  into  a  different 
channel. 

u  Have  any  of  the  gentlemen  ever  read  any  of  Mr. 
Maturin's  romances  V*  inquired  Lady  Trail. 

"  D'ye  mean,  my  Lady  Trail,  the  curate  of  St.  John's 
in  Dublin  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  Lord  Squander,  that  is  the  man." 

"  Well,  my  lady,  though  I  be  not  much  of  a  Christian 
myself — hang  it,  and  I'm  sorry  to  say  so  much — I 
don't  at  all  approve  of  a  minister's  spending  his  time 
in  romance  writing." 

"  But  he  says  that  necessity  urges  him." 

"  Tut — beg  pardon,  my  lady — a  mere  farce — a  ruse 
de  guerre,  as  it  were.  It  was  the  success  of  Bertram 
that  first  turned  his  head,"  replied  Graybeard,  "  and 
though  he  has  doubtless  a  strong  and  vivid  fancv,  con- 
siderable  energy  of  style,  and  a  creditable  command  of 
language,  yet  there  is  something  in  his  imaginative 
writing  with  which  I  cannot  be  satisfied.  He  must 
always  bring  in  a  fiend.     He  must  endeavour  to  ter- 


•   * 


322  BLUCHER. 

rify  the  mind.  I  will  not  deny  that  there  are  many 
most  powerful  scenes  in  his  work — that  the  language 
is  often  beautiful,  and  that  the  descriptions  are  exceed- 
ingly brilliant.  But  I  have  detected  in. his  chief  work, 
Melmoth,  a  most  glaring  and  impudent  plagiarism. 
Would  any  lady  or  gentleman  present  suppose  that  the 
whole  of  the  second  volume — I  mean  that  part  which 
describes  the  horrible  sufferings  of  a  young  nobleman 
in  a  Catholic  monastery  in  Spain — is,  merely  substi- 
tuting a  woman  for  a  man,  copied  verbatim  et  literatim 
from  the  French  of  Monsieur  Diderot's  Nun." 

ik  You  amaze  me,  Mr.  Gray  beard,"  replied  Lady 
Trail ;  "  do  you  knoiv  that  to  be  a  fact  ?" 

"  My  lady,  I  have  read  Diderot's  novel  myself,  be- 
fore I  even  saw  or  heard  of  Mr.  Maturin's.  The  cir- 
cumstance of  the  bishop's  coming  to  examine  well  the 
circumstance — his  own  personal  character — the  abomi- 
nable expedient  resorted  to  to  impress  upon  the  bish- 
op's mind  a  belief  that  the  young  person  was  actually 
under  the  influence  of  demoniacal  agency — all  is  ver- 
batim copied  from  Monsieur  Diderot!'''1 

"  Yet,  notwithstanding  that  circumstance,  which  I 
am  heartily  grieved  to  hear,  sanctioned  as  it  is  by  such 
unquestionable  authority  as  your's,  Mr.  Graybeard — " 

"  You  do  me  honour,  my  lady." 

u  Yes,  sir,  I  think  he  has  many  original — redeeming 
beauties." 

"  Yes,  madam.  The  awful  state  of — indeed,  mad- 
am, the  name  has  slipped  my  memory,  but  I  mean 
the  usurper  of  the  castle  ;  the  uncle  of  Sir  Paladour 
de  la  Langland — when  he  is  enclosed  in  the  burning 
chamber,  having  himself  thrown  away  the  only  means 
of  deliverance,  the  key,  is  indescribably  appalling. 
I  could  specify  many  other  beauties  if  necessary." 

"  By  Jupiter,  but  'tis  time  I  should  be  gone,"  sud- 
denly said  my  Lord  Squander.  Now,  I  ought  previ- 
ously to  have  mentioned,  that  I  had  somehow  attracted 
the  favourable  notice  of  this  gay  and  jolly  young  no- 
bleman.    I  had  sat  several  times  between  his  legs,  and 


BLUCHER.  323 

he  had  been  amusing  himself  by  patting  my  head, 
scratching  my  shoulders,  tweaking  my  ears,  &c,  in  a 
very  gay  and  gentle  mood.  Before  he  left  the  room, 
he  called  Sir  Diggory  aside — offered  him  three  guineas 
more  than  I  had  cost  him — the  bargain  was  accepted 
— the  money  paid  on  the  spot  by  a  check — the  young 
nobleman  went  to  the  door — whistled  to  me — I  under- 
stood his  signal— leaped  after  him,  and  followed  him 
down  stairs. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

Character  of  Squander. 

When  we  arrived  at  the  hall  door,  Lord  Squander's 
groom  was  awaiting  his  lordship  with  two  horses. 

••  Well,  Billy — my  man  o'  ten  thousand ! — tell  me  how 
it  goes  with  the  Grand  Vizier?'' 

"  By !  my  lord,  he's  sore  galled  in  the  back  ; 

but  I  rubbed  the  sore  with  the  Wash  your  lordship  and 
I  bought  t'other  day." 

"  Didn't  he  wince  under  it — eh,  Billy  V 

"  Deusedly,  my  lord  !  If  I  did  not  expect  to  leave 
the  stable  with  a  broken  leg,  may  our  next  spree  get 
us  into  trouble,  my  lord,"  answered  the  groom,  with  im- 
pudent familiarity. 

His  lordship  then  mounted,  whistled  me  to  his  side, 
and  followed  by  his  groom,  we  all  went  down  Brook- 
street. 

Lord  Squander  was  a  clever,  wild,  thoughtless,  dis- 
sipated, good-natured  young  man,  just  fresh  from  col- 
lege— and  possessed  of  an  estate  of  eleven  thousand 
per  annum,  which  it  was  his  hourly  study  to  squander 
with  as  much  eclat  as  possible.  His  Bible  was  his 
"  Treatise  of  Farriery" — his  church,  the  stable — his 
horse,  his  God — the  race  course,  his  Elysium.  He  had 
got  imperceptibly  connected  with  a  band  of  swindlers, 
who  were  draining   out  every  farthing  of  his   noble 


324  BLIJCHER. 

property — introducing  him  to  every  man  of  fashionable 
extravagance,  and  tempting  him  to  venture  the  most 
enormous  sums  at  the  gaming  table.  These  infernal 
scoundrels  had  a  certain  exquisite  eloquence  of  man- 
ners, a  specious  plausibility  of  language,  and  an  appa- 
rent enchanting  openness,  a  bluff  English  frankness  of 
disposition,  which  completely  blinded  Lord  Squander. 
They  were  leading  him  up,  with  his  eyes  open — sur- 
rounded with  merriment,  and  excited  with  vice,  amid 
music,  and  dancing,  and  revelry — to  the  terrific  verge 
of  ruin — and  then  they  would  leave  him ! 

His  was  by  no  means  a  singular  character.  He  was 
not  wanting  in  decision,  in  promptness,  in  energy. 
Let  violent  opposition  front  him  for  the  purpose  of 
thwarting  and  conquering  him,  and  he  would  brave  and 
defy  it,  as  doth  Mount  Skiddaw  the  howling  of  the 
northern  wind ;  but  let  it  come  in  soft,  languid,  per- 
fumed breezes,  and  he  would  open  his  whole  inmost 
heart  to  its  influence,  as  by  listening  to  the  bewitching 
flattery  and  wiles  of  Delilah,  Samson  was  shorn  of  his 
strength — quenching  for  ever  the  star  of  his  mighti- 
ness. His  great  error  lay  in  a  false  perception  of 
kindly  feeling.  The  way  he  answered  his  doubts  and 
misgivings  was  thus  :  "  These  fellows  flatter  me — I 
know  they  are  insincere  in  their  hyperbolical  phrases  ; 
but  whatever  be  their  latent  motive,  they  evidently 
think  me  worthy  of  using  their  utmost  endeavour  of 
pleasing.  It  would  be  shockingly  brutal  to  answer 
them  with  frowning  sternness."  Thus  he  lulled  his 
better  sense  to  a  state  of  unnatural  repose,  by  false  and 
dangerous  opiates.  The  delicious  agony  of  incertitude 
in  gaming,  charmed  his  soul  to  ecstasy.  He  experi- 
enced alarming  losses ;  his  pride  was  cunningly  aroused 
— he  was  bewildered — infatuated,  and  doubled,  trebled, 
quadrupled  his  stake  with  half-maddened  vehemence. 
He  was  now  twenty-three  years  old — alone  in  the 
world.  His  parents  had  died  while  he  was  in  a  state 
of  infancy — his  guardian  was  a  bustling  political  char- 
acter,  who  led   him  through   the  usual   routine  of  a 


BLITCHER.  325 

nobleman's  education,  and  on  his  twenty-first  birthday 
tendered  up  to  him  the  accounts  and  investments  of  his 
property,  blessing  himself  that  he  had  now  got  rid  of 
the  anxiety  they  had  occasioned.  His  groom,  Billy, 
was  a  most  subtle  scoundrel,  in  the  high  pay  of  the 
swindling  sharpers,  who  had  plotted  the  ruin  of  the 
thoughtless  nobleman  he  served,  and  veiled  his  consum- 
mate villany  beneath  an  air  of  simplicity,  openness,  and 
vulgarity.  It  forcibly  presented  to  my  fancy — for  even 
dogs  have  fancies — a  huge  snake  stealthily  coiling 
himself  round  the  noble,  powerful,  but  unsuspecting 
lion. 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

An  Adventure,  leading  to  a  bloody  Conflict;  in  which  I  had  the 
Happiness  to  render  my  noble  Master  a  trifling  Piece  of  Service. 

It  was  a  moonlight  night.  Lord  Squander  rode 
along  in  the  direction  of  Stamford  Hill.  He  occasion- 
ally  hummed  snatches  of  an  opera  tune. 

"  Tom !"  said  his  lordship.  His  groom  rode  up  to 
his  side. 

w  Tom ! — how  far  are  we  from  the  old  oak  ?" 

"What  oak,  my  lord?" 

"Why,  that  which  was  blasted  with  lightning,  you 
know,  in  the  year  1800." 

"  Can't  say,  indeed,  sir.  Believe  it  to  be  about  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  off." 

"  Very  well — fall  behind,  Tom,"  said  his  lordship. 
At  length  the  oak  appeared  distantly  in  sight — its 
toothed  trunk  reflected  the  cold  rays  of  the  moon, 
glistening  like  a  hoary  sentinel  of  the  night.  All  was 
quiet,  except  the  clattering  of  their  horses'  hoofs.  Lord 
Squander  seemed  growing  melancholy,  for  he  ceased 
his  opera  tune,  and  rode  on  slowly,  guiding  his  horse 
negligently.  Suddenly  he  heard  his  groom  give  a  loud 
and  shrill  whistle  through  his  fingers. 

28 


326  BLUCHER. 

"  Holla !"  said  my  lord,  «'  Tom — what  the  deuse  is 
the  meaning  of  that,  you  impudent  rascal  ?" 

"  Only  a  bit  of  amusement,  my  lord,"  replied  the 
fellow,  with  insolent  assurance.  He  had  said  he  did 
it  for  amusement ;  but  the  event  turned  out  differently. 
They  were  just  riding  past  the  oak  before  alluded  to, 
when  three  men  started  from  behind  it,  disguised  as 
clowns  in  smock  frocks,  and  with  hideous  masks  on 
their  faces.  They  walked  up  to  his  lordship's  horse, 
arm  in  arm ;  they  stopped  it. 

•'  Why — how  now  1  What — what — what's  the  mat- 
ter ?"  inquired  Lord  Squander,  amazedly. 

"  Why,"  replied  the  tallest  of  the  three,  "  we  are 
gentlemen  of  the  king's  highway  ;  patrols  o'  the  night, 
as  it  were :  but  then  we  are  paid,  not  by  the  king, 
but  by  passengers." 

"Highwaymen,  by !"  muttered  his  lordship,  in 

consternation. 

"  Now,"  continued  the  first  speaker,  "  look  you  here, 
my  lord." 

"  Why,  how  i'  the  name  of  Goodness  do  you  know 
that  I  am  a  nobleman  ?" 

"  Thou  fool,  Will !"  whispered  the  second  highway- 
man, "  it's  all  up  now — so,  to  him  like  a  man." 

"  My  lord,"  resumed  the  tallest  again,  "  we  are  three 
honest  patrols  ;  we  have  been  waiting  here  in  the  cold 

more  than  two  hours,  and,  by !   we  will  be  paid 

for  it.     So,  out  with  your  purse." 

"  Away,  villain,  away  !"  said  his  lordship  ;  and  touch- 
ing a  spring  of  his  cane  stick,  the  case  fell  off,  and  a 
long,  thin,  sharp  sword  appeared.  The  tallest  robber 
put  his  hand  into  his  bosom — and,  simultaneously 
with  his  companions,  drew  out  a  large  horse  pistol. 

11  This  tidy  little  gentleman,  my  lord,"  said  the  fel- 
low, pointing  his  murderous  weapon  at  the  breast  of 
Lord  Squander,  M  wants  a  little  work — flush  work,  as 
it  were.  Out  with  your  money — or  your  money  shall 
get  out  of  you,  and  you  out  of  this  wricked  world."  His 
lordship,  with  his  left  hand,  calmly  buttoned  up  his 


BLUCHER.  327 

coat ;  he  then  called  to  his  sen-ant  to  stand  by  him. 
The  scoundrel  laughed,  and  stirred  not.  The  rob- 
bers, seeing  his  lordship  making  such  resolutep  repar- 
ations, seemed  bent  on  desperate  measures. 

"  Shoot  the  dog,"  said  the  tallest,  as  he  levelled  his 
pistol  at  the  nobleman,  and  tired !  But  my  lord  hap- 
pening to  make  a  sudden  and  unexpected  turn,  he 
escaped  injury,  and  his  treacherous  servant  was  shot 
dead  on  his  horse.  The  villain  who  had  received 
orders  to  shoot  at  me  cocked  his  pistol,  and  fired  un- 
der my  body  ;  for  apprehending  his  intent,  1  instantly 
sprung  forward,  seized  the  caitiff  by  the  neck,  bore  him 
to  the  earth,  and  pinned  him  there,  mounting  guard  on 
his  breast.  As  for  the  fellow  who  fired,  his  pistol 
was  no  sooner  discharged,  than  his  lordship's  dirk  had 
pierced  his  eye,  penetrated  the  orbit,  and  entered  deep 
into  the  brain ;  before  the  dirk  could  be  (although  the 
motion  of  Lord  Squander  was  very  quick)  snatched 
back,  the  villain  had  fallen  a  dead  man  on  the  earth. 
There  was  now  one  robber  to  contend  with,  who,  on 
seeing  the  fate  of  his  comrades,  levelled  at  Lord  Squan- 
der, but  his  pistol  missed  fire.  He  instantly  sprang 
back,  and  picked  up  a  thick  oaken  stick,  which  he  had 
had  the  precaution  to  drop  by  his  side,  in  the  event  of  any 
sudden  emergency.  While  he  was  in  the  act  of  getting 
it  into  his  hand,  his  lordship  leaped  from  his  horse. 
They  were  now  at  desperate  issue.  He  was  an  ex- 
cellent swordsman.  His  motions  were  as  quick  as 
thought :  but  he  had  to  contend  with  a  brawny  Hercu- 
lean fellow,  who  now  wielded  over  his  head  a  tremen- 
dous oaken  staff.  He  avoided  the  fierce  strokes  of 
Lord  Squander  with  considerable  agility,  springing 
from  side  to  side  with  great  nimbleness,  at  the  same 
time  that  his  nervous  arm  plied  his  cudgel  with  fearful 
velocity  about  the  head  and  shoulders  of  the  gallant 
nobleman.  At  length,  he  made  a  desperate  effort ;  but 
just  as  his  cudgel  descended  on  Lord  Squander's  left 
arm  with  fearful  force,  his  lordship's  dirk  had  pierced 


328  BLUCIIER. 

his  heart,  and  he  fell  over  his  companion  without  a 
groan. 

Notwithstanding  the  dreadful  struggles  of  my  power- 
ful prisoner,  I  held  him  fast. 

"  Now,  thou  villain !"  panted  his  lordship,  approach- 
ing him,  "  what  hast  thou  to  say  for  thyself?" 

"  That  I  would  rejoice  to  blow  out  your  brains,"  re- 
plied the  man,  sullenly.  His  lordship  patted  me  kindly 
on  the  back,  and  then  went  to  examine  the  counte- 
nances of  the  two  men  he  had  slain.  He  pulled  oil*  at 
once  both  their  masks.  Their  countenances  were 
pale,  and  spotted  with  blood  ;  that  of  the  tallest,  whose 
eye  and  brain  had  been  pierced  by  the  keen  blade  of 
Lord  Squander,  presented  a  shocking  disfigured  ap- 
pearance. As  soon  as  he  saw  their  countenances,  he 
exclaimed  in  great  agitation,  "  Is  it  possible  that  such 
blackness  should  sully  the  pure  front  of  human  nature !" 
Ay,  indeed  it  was  possible  ;  for  according  to  the  depth 
and  rottenness  of  its  internal  corruption,  is  too  fre- 
quently the  alluring  brightness  of  its  outward  aspect. 
It  is  the  deadly  assassin,  clothed  in  raiment  of  white. 
The  night  patrols  came  galloping  up,  for  Lord  Squan- 
der (though  his  left  arm  had  received  a  dreadful  in- 
jury, and  hung  powerless  by  his  side)  had  mounted 
his  horse,  and  ridden  to  this  beat,  which  happily  was 
not  far  off. 

"  My  lord,  you  have  seen  indifferent  good  service 
here,  I  observe,"  said  the  chief,  as  he  looked  on  the 
three  gory  corpses,  and  their  three  large  horse  pistols, 
thrown  about. 

u  Why,  yes,  it  was  a  deadly — a  desperate  struggle. 
That  dog  has  proved  himself  capable  of  performing  the 
arduous  duty  of  a  police  officer ;  so  steadily,  so  deter- 
minate^, has  he  secured  his  prisoner — hey,  gentle- 
men ?" 

"  Ha — ha — ha  !M  was  the  reply,  as  they  bound  my 
charge  hand  and  foot,  and  threw  him  before  one  of 
their  mounted  companions.  With  the  most  perfect 
indifference  they  bound  the  two  corpses  back  to  back, 


BLUCIIER.  320 

and  placed  them  before  a  tall  patrol  on  horseback. 
A  third  took  charge  of  the  corpse  of  the  treacherous 
valet ;  and  so  they  made  for  London.  My  lord  mount- 
ed his  horse,  and  rode  on  to  his  country  house.  When 
arrived,  the  family  physician  was  instantly  summoned; 
and  after  a  minute  inspection  of  the  injured  parts,  he 
declared  that  no  bones  were  broken,  and  that,  with  the 
use  of  a  little  aperient  physic,  and  cold  applications  to  the 
tumefied  part  of  the  arm,  after  eighteen  leeches  had 
been  applied,  no  permanent  evil  would  ensue.  I  never 
quitted  his  side  for  an  instant.  Many  a  fine  morning 
has  he  sat  in  his  magnificently  furnished  drawing  room, 
with  me  lying  by  his  side,  and  Sir  Walter  Scott's  noble 
romance  of  "  Ivanhoe"  stretched  before  him.  Our  af- 
fection was  mutual,  calm,  and  deep.  Nothing  could 
have  induced  him  to  change  his  dog  ;  nor  me  my  noble- 
hearted  master. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

A  short  Specimen  of  Newspaper  Composition. 

Two  days  after,  Lord  Squander  read  the  following 
paragraph  from  the  Morning  Chronicle : — 

"  It  has  seldom  been  our  lot  to  record  a  more  dread- 
ful circumstance  than  the  present.     Late  on  Tuesday 

evening, 25th,   1824,  as  the  Right  Honourable 

Lord  Squander  and  his  valet  were  riding  towards  his 
lordship's  superb  villa  at ,  they  were  suddenly  at- 
tacked by  three  highwaymen,  who  insolently  demand- 
ed his  lordship's  purse.  With  that  decisive  resolution 
and  unconquerable  bravery  which  seems  inherent  in 
his  lordship's  family,"  &c,  &c,  &c,  "  his  lordship  re- 
fused their  demand,  and  drew  his  dirk,  (we  are  given 
to  understand  it  was  made  by  that  ingenious  mechanic, 
Mr.  Geo.  Bilberry,  No.   Ill  Tottenham  courtyard,*) 

*  Such  puffs  as  these  in  our  diurnal  literature  are  not  by  any 

28* 


330  BLUCHER. 

calling  to  his  servant  to  second  his  endeavours.  The 
villain  laughed,  and  remained  aloof ;  from  which  cir- 
cumstance it  is  inferred  that  he  was  in  league  with  the 
highwaymen.  After  a  desperate  struggle,  in  which  no 
man  ever  showed  equal  bravery,  resolution,  and  self- 
possession,  Lord  S.,  with  the  aid  of,  as  we  understand,  a 
most  superb  Newfoundland  dog,"  [on  hearing  this  very 
handsome  compliment,  I  positively  knew  not  how  to 
give  utterance  to  my  thanks.  If  the  writer  of  that 
paragraph,  however,  should  happen  to  read  No.  13  of 
the  Diorama,  he  will  observe  this  tribute  of  my  grati- 
tude,] "  succeeded  in  obtaining  the  mastery,  and 
stretched  two  of  the  villains  dead  at  his  feet ;  while 
his  faithful  Newfoundland  dog,  with  admirable  and  in- 
tuitive sagacity,"  [how  distressing  it  is  to  lie  under  an 
obligation  one  cannot  return  !]  "  held  the  third  in  '  du- 
rance vile.''  We  forgot,  however,  to  mention  an  ex- 
traordinary instance  of  retributive  justice  ;  the  first  shot 
aimed  at  Lord  S.,  owing  to  his  sudden  change  of  posi- 
tion, dreadful  to  relate,  blew  out  the  brains  of  his 
treacherous  servant !  Although  this  gallant  young  no- 
bleman was  severely  injured  in  his  left  arm,  he  instant- 
ly mounted  his  horse,  and  rode  after  the  night  patrol. 
They  immediately  bound  the  living  malefactor,  and 
carried  him  away,  together  with  the  three  corpses. 
The  miserable  wretch  yesterday  underwent  a  long  ex- 
amination in  private,  before  Botherem  Baytail,  Esq., 

at street  office  ;  after  which  he  was  committed  to 

Newgate,  and  Lord  S.  is  bound  over  to  prosecute.  We 
understand,  that  on  hearing  of  this  dreadful  affair,  Lord 
S.'s  intended  bride,  the  beauteous  Lady  Phillipina 
Claronville,  was  taken  suddenly  ill ;  and  continues  in 
the  utmost  peril.  Dr.  Liniment  is  in  constant  attend- 
ance upon  her  ladyship." 

"  Ha,    ha,    ha ! — did  ever  mortal  hear  the  like  of 
that  ?"  said  my  master,  as  he  read  the  latter  adjunct. 

means  uncommon ;  but  when  they  are  introduced  with  such  ex- 
quisite adroitness  as  in  the  present,  they  are  handsomely  paid  for. 

Blucher. 


BLUCHER.  331 

But  towards  the  end  of  the  paper  he  found  this  sen- 
tence :  "  We  stop  the  press  to  state,  that  the  infor- 
mation contained  in  the  last  sentence  of  the  paragraph 
recording  the  affair  of  the  Right  Honourable  Lord 
Squander  by  the  highwaymen,  is  totally  without  foun- 
dation. It  may  be  attributed  to  the  agitation  of  our 
mind  on  receiving  the  alarming  intelligence. — [Ed- 
itor.]" 

As  the  Old  Bailey  sessions  commenced  in  a  fort- 
night, the  trial  of  the  highwayman  was  then  to  take 
place ;  and  as  it  was  expected  to  be  among  the  earli- 
est called  for,  I  awaited,  as  also  did  Lord  Squander, 
with  very  great  anxiety. 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

A  Specimen  of  Old  Bailey  Legislature. 

At  length  the  day  of  trial  arrived.     About  nine  in 

the  morning,  Lord  Squander  left  his  residence  in 

Square,  taking  me  with  him  in  his  carriage.  We  arrived 
presently  at  the  Old  Bailey.  The  path  by  the  Sessions 
House  was  straw-strewn.  It  was  a  very  gloomy  day  ; 
for  the  rain  descended  in  torrents.  Every  avenue  was 
crowded  to  excess,  for  the  affair,  owing  to  the  diurnal 
stimulants  of  curiosity  contained  in  every  paper,  had 
made  a  great  stir.  When  Lord  Squander's  rank  was 
announced,  as  soon  as  the  steps  of  his  carriage  were  let 
down,  the  Governor  of  Newgate,  accompanied  by  an 
officer  bearing  an  umbrella,  came  and  conducted  us  to 
the  Justice  Hall.  We  entered  by  the  door  behind  the 
judges'  seat.  Most  of  my  readers  must  be  familiar 
with  the  place;  an  elaborate  description  thereof  is  con- 
sequently unnecessary.  Suffice  it  thus  much  :  Before 
us  was  a  circular  table,  where  sat  the  gentlemen  of 
the  long  robe ;  and  on  the  present  occasion  there 
was  a  very  full  attendance  of  them.     On  the  outside 


332  BLUCIIER. 

of  that  was  the  witness  box,  with  a  small  sounding 
board.  Beyond  this  was  the  dock.  A  mirror  is  there 
so  suspended,  as  to  reflect  everything.  The  sides 
are  fringed  with  large  iron  spikes.  Still  farther  on  is 
the  entrance  whereby  the  prisoners  are  conducted  from 
Newgate  prison.  On  the  right-hand  side  was  the  pub- 
lic gallery ;  on  the  other — I  forget  whether  it  was  of- 
ficial or  no — many  respectable  persons  appeared.  Be- 
neath it,  parallel  with  the  grand  was  the  jury  box. 
Those  arrangements  being  made,  the  trial  commenced. 

Judge.     "  Let  the  prisoner  be  called  into  court." 

Governor  of  Newgate.  "  He  shall,  my  lord."  Pres- 
ently an  officer  entered,  bringing  in  the  prisoner.  He 
was  a  dark,  short,  stout  man,  with  a  very  sullen  and 
malignant  expression  of  countenance.  The  indict- 
ment was  read,  charging  him,  "  David  Dreddon,  with 
assaulting  the  Right  Honourable  Lord  Squander  on 
his  majesty's  highway,"  &c. 

When  the  clerk  of  arraigns  had  concluded,  the  trial 
proceeded. 

Justice.     Prisoner,  how  will  you  be  tried  ? 

D.  Dredd.  I  don't  care.  If  I  had  my  will,  I  would 
not  be  tried  at  all. 

Governor,  [whispering  to  the  prisoner.]  Imperti- 
nence to  his  lordship  will  but  make  your  case  worse ; 
as  a  friend,  I  advise  you  to  be  submissive  :  answer  the 
judge  properly. 

D.  Dredd.,  [sullenly.']    Well,  and  what  must  I  say  1 

Governor.     "  By  God,  and  my  country,"  to  be  sure. 

D.  Dredd.,  [muttering.]  Well,  if  I  must,  I  must. 
[AZowd.] — By  God  and  my  country,  my  lord. 

Judge.     Very  well,  prisoner. 

Mr.  Sergeant  Silverfee  opened  the  case,  speaking  in 
this  fashion : — 

"MylVd,  and  gentlemen  of  the  jury.  You  have 
heard  the  endictment  read,  charging  the  prisoner  with 
highway  robbery.  In  stating  the  very  aggravating 
circumstances  attending  this  desperate  assault,  I  will 
be  as  brief  as  possible."     He  then  gave  a  lucid  ac- 


BLUCHER.  333 

count  of  the  transaction  ;  which,  however,  I  don't  think 
it  necessary  to  relate  a  second  time  ;  and  he  then, 
amid  dead  silence, thus  proceeded: — 

"  Now,  my  l'a'd,  having  briefly  stated  the  circum- 
stances of  the  case,  I  will  presently,  with  your  lord- 
ship's permission,  unravel  one  of  the  most  diabolical 
plots  ever  laid,  for  the  ruin  of  this  young  nobleman. 
My  Lord  Squander,  my  l'a'd,  and  gentleman  of  the  jury, 
has  just  come  of  age,  and  into  the  possession  of  a 
princely  fortune.     He  immediately  repaired  to  Lon- 
don ;  and  as  happens  to  most  young  men  of  rank,  was 
instantly  surrounded  by  hosts  of  those  who  live  upon 
the  frailties  and  follies  of  mankind.     They  led  him  to 
every  scene  of  fashionable  extravagance.     They  in- 
itiated him  into  the  abhorred  mysteries  of  the  gaming 
tables.     They  led  him  into  temporary  embarrassments 
in  his  pecuniary  affairs,  and  then  introduced  him  to  a 
member  of  their  gang,  disguised  as  a  money  lender ; 
from  whom  he  borrowed  money  at  enormously  exor- 
bitant interest.     My  l'a'd  I  am  credibly  informed  that 
these  miscreants  frequently  lent  him  money  at  seventy 
per  cent.!"  (a  murmur  of  anger  ran  through  all  present.) 
11  Still  his  money  poured  not  fast  enough  into  their  ra- 
pacious hands ;    his  eyes   gradually  were  opened  to 
discern  their  monstrous,  their  iniquitous  devices.     As 
soon  as  they  were  sensible  of  it,  they  resolved,  by  a 
bold  stroke,  to  obtain — but  I  will  explain  the  rest  of  my 
case   by    witnesses.       The   Right  Honourable    Lord 
Squander — please  to  inform  us,  my  lord,  of  the  spe- 
cific sum  of  money  on  your  person,  on evening, 

the of  —  r 

Lord  S.  I  had  three  bills  of  11,000  each  in  my 
pocketbook. 

Counsellor  Silverfee.  Very  good,  my  lord.  Pray, 
had  your  lordship  any  reason  to  suppose  that  others 
among  your  former  associates  knew  that  you  had  re- 
ceived so  large  a  sum  ? 

Lord  S.     Not  the  slightest  whatever. 

Counsellor  Sih.     Allow  me  to  request  your  lordship 


334  BLUCHER. 

to  resume  your  seat  for  the  present.     Now,  George 
Gregory — stand  you  here,  if  you  please. 

This  was  a  decent,  cockneyfied  man,  with  a  very 
knowing  expression  of  countenance. 

Counsellor  Silv.  Now,  Mr.  Gregory,  please  to  in- 
form the   court  where  you  were  on  the  evening,  or 

rather  latter  part  of  the  afternoon,  of ? 

G.  Greg.     My  lord,  I  vas  in  Lon'on. 
Counsellor  Silv.     I  suppose  so — I  suppose  so  :  but 
whereabouts  ? 

G.  Greg.  I  vas  passing  the  Blackleg  public  house, 
and  being  rather  dry,  I  vent  in,  and  called  for  a  bit — a 
drop  of  beer.  So,  my  lord ;  whip  me,  if  I'd  a  been 
there  above  four — nay,  about — stop,  it  might  have  been 
pretty  near  two  minutes  and  three  quarters. 

Judge.  Witness,  witness  !  we  really  have  not  time 
for  this  trifling.     Speak  to  the  point  at  once. 

G.  Greg.  Your  sanctified  vorship — reverence — eh 
— eh — dign — lordship,  I  mean  ;  I  had  not  been  there 
above  a  little  while,  when  I  hears,  through  the  wooden 
p'tition,  three  or  four  men,  talking  in  a  werry  queer 
manner ;  so,  says  I  to  myself,  '"Drat  it !"  says  I,  "  what 
harm  can  I  do  'em  by  listening?"  So  I  makes  me  no 
more  to  do,  but  stoops  me  down,  and  listens. 

"  Will,"  whispered  one  of  d'em,  "  Lord  Squander 
travels  to  his  country  house  to-night — he  does,  i'fackins." 
"  And  what  of  that,  Tom  ?     What  have  we  to  do 
with  the  titled  ass's  travelling?"  says  another. 

"  What  have  we  to  do,  Will  ?  I'll  be  hang'd  if  we 
haven't  a  great  deal  to  do,  for  whip  me  if  he  doesn't 
carry  in  his  pocket  some  cool  thirty-three  thousand 
pounds  !" 

"  S'death  !— but  does  he  ?     We'll  be  with  him  ;  we'll 
be  with  him,  Tom  !"     And  then,  my  lord,  they  went  out. 
Couns.  Silv.     Now,  sir,  can  you,  d'ye  think,  recog- 
nise the  voice  of  either  of  those  speakers,  on  hearing 
them  again  ? 

G.  Greg.  No,  no,  sir — 'drat  it,  no !  They  did  but 
whisper,  as  it  were. 


BUTCHER.  335 

Couns.  Silv.     My  l'a'd,  I  have  done  with  this  witness. 

(Witness  examined  by  the  court.) 

Judge.  Witness — what  is  your  motive  in  giving  this 
testimony  ? 

G.  Greg.  Hem,  hem ;  my  lord,  hem,  hem.  Fair 
play  is  the  word  with  honest  George  Gregory. 

Judge.  Pray,  witness,  speak  more  soberly.  Tell 
us  how  you  came  to  compare  and  establish  a  connection 
between  the  fact,  circumstance,  and  occurrence,  which 
you  have  now  given,  sworn,  and  testified — and  the  trial 
now  going  forward. 

G.  Greg.  I  will,  so  please  your  mightiness.  I  was 
sitting  at  home  with  my  rib,  your  learnedness — it  might 
have  been  supper  time.  My  rib  had  been  axing  me  if 
there  wasn't  no  news  in  the  paper.  "  Lovy,"  quoth  I, 
"  wait  till  I  read."  So,  as  soon  as  I  had  finished  my 
porter,  and  read  the  backside — that's  the  further  end  of 
the  paper — I  comes  to  read  a  pe'rgref  about  'at  'ere 
noble's  being  'tackted  by  robbers  :  and  a  little  further 
on,  lo  and  behold  ! — it  was  on  the  same  evening  that  I 
heard  that  conversation  which  I  has  just  here  told  to 
that  smooth-voiced  gemman,  'at  as  just  sitted  down. 
"  'Od  rat  it,  wife,"  says  I,  "  I  knows  somewhat  more 
o'  this  than  I  cares  for  to  tell  you."  "  La'ard  !"  says 
she,  in  a  flustrum,  "  sure  you  wasn't  one  o'  them  there 
warmint  ?"  "  No,  my  sweet,"  says  I,  "  but  I'll  be  con- 
ceiving I  know  'em  'at  were."  So  after  that,  mum  was 
the  word  with  me,  till  I  come  here  to-day. 

(Cross-examined  by  Mr.  Counsellor  Snap.  N.  B. 
When  witness  saw  this  learned  gentleman  rise  for  the 
purpose  of  cross-questioning  him,  having  before  expe- 
rienced his  tartness  and  severity,  he  turned  pale,  wiped 
his  forehead,  and  ejaculated,  "  Lord!  Lord!") 

Couns.  Snap.     What  are  you,  Mr.  Gregory  ? 

Witness.  An  honest  man,  sir,  thank  God  and  my 
good  conscience. 

Couns.  Snap.  That  remains,  sir,  to  be  proved.  How 
do  you  get  your  living?     I  mean,  what  trade  are  you  ? 

Witness,  (stammering.)  Why,  sir — ahem— hem  ;  in 


336  BLUCHER. 

fact,  sir — hem,  hem,  hem — I  am ;  but  to  be  sure — a — 
a — yet,  what  does  that  matter,  I  should  like  to  know  ? 
Why,  I  am,  thank  Providence,  what  I  was  months  ago, 
sir,  I'm  my  own  business,  sir. 

Courts.  Snap.  Let  us  have  no  equivocation,  sir. 
What  business  are  you  ? 

Witness,  [confusedly.)     A  g — e — nt — le — m — an. 

Couns.  Snap.  A  gentleman  ?  very  good,  sir.  What 
are  your  means  of  support  ? — if  I  may  make  so  bold  as 
to  inquire. 

Witness,  (angrily.)  A  very  imperdent  question,  I'm 
sure.  Why,  they  is  the  same  as  all  gemmen  has — 
money. 

Couns.  Snap.  Mister  George  Gregory,  you  see  I 
am  a  sober  man — 

-  Witness.  I  see  you  are,  sir,  for  once  in  a  way ; 
and  I'm  very  glad  oft,  I'm  sure.  You  know,  sir,  it 
wouldn't  be  the  thing  if  you  was  to  reel  or  stagger  drunk 
into  this  here  court.  To  be  sure,  you  don't  smell  much 
of  brandy  to-day  ;  but  your  nose,  sir,  would  do  excel- 
lently well  for  something. 

Couns.  Snap,  (furiously.)  Speak,  sirrah  :  what, 
puppy? 

Witness,  (triumphantly.)  Why,  sir,  to  light  a  pipe 
of  tobacco,  when  the  taproom  fires  are  out — ha,  ha,  ha  ! 
Here  I  heard  a  burst  of  laughter  ;  then  Mr.  Counsellor 
Snap  sat  or  rather  threw  himself  down.  The  judge 
then  spoke. 

Judge.  Witness,  you  are  extremely  insolent.  If  I 
hear  a  repetition  of  it  again,  you  will  suffer  for  it.  And 
you,  Brother  Snap,  I  must  say,  are  much  too  severe. 
Be  more  moderate,  Brother  Snap ;  be  more  moderate, 
Brother  Snap. 

Couns.  Snap,  (rising  slowly,  thumbing  violently  his 
brief.)  Now,  sir,  I'm  quite  cool.  I  am,  I  am.  You 
are  such  a  superlative — but  you're  beneath  my  notice. 
What  are  you,  sir  ? — I  ask  you  once  more. 

Judge.     Witness,  you  must  answer  the  question. 

Witness,  (reluctantly.)     I  gets  my  living  sometimes 


BLUCHER.  337 

by  tavern-waiting ;  sometimes  by  looking  after  horses 
and  gigs — and  so  ;  and  so — 

Couns.  Snap,  (thundering  loudly.)  And  I  tell  you, 
sirrah,  that  you  are  a  villain  ! — a  pimp  and  a  pander  to 
young  heirs  and  nobles  ! 

Witness,  (foaming.)  And  I  tell  you,  that  you  are  a 
d— d  liar ! 

( Witness  turned  round,  and  looked  anxiously  at  the 
door,  as  if  he  intended  to  decamp.) 

Judge.  Mr.  Governor,  see  that  there  be  officers 
placed  between  the  witness  box  and  the  door.  Pro- 
ceed, Brother  Snap.  And  as  for  you,  George  Gregory, 
if  you  refuse  to  answer  one  single  question  of  any  kind, 
I  will  order  you  into  custody  immediately.  Be  brief, 
for  we  have  a  great  throng  of  cases  to  proceed  with. 

Couns.  Snap.  I  will,  my  lord.  Attend  to  me,  wit- 
ness.    I  know  more    about   you   than   you   suppose. 

Where  were  you  on  the  night  of  ? — I  mean  the 

night  when  his  lordship  was  robbed. 

Witness,  (shivering.)     Where  was  I  ? — at  home. 

Couns.  Snap.  No,  sir,  you  were  not  twenty  yards 
from  the  scathed  oak  tree  when  this  desperate  affray 
commenced  ! 

Witness.     Lord,  Lord !     Who  told  you  so  ? 

Couns.  Snap.  That  is  of  no  consequence  to  you. 
Can  you  deny  it,  sirrah  1 

Witness,  (pale  and  disordered.)  Why,  it's  posu.Auie  I 
might  have  chanced  to  be  passing  by  at  the  time. 

Couns.  Snap.  Do  you  know  these,  sirrah  ?  (taking 
from  a  draicer  in  the  oval  table  at  which  he  sat,  a  large 
horse  pistol,  a  mask,  and  a  smock  frock.) 

The  witness  made  no  answer,  and  presently  sank, 
fainting,  into  the  arms  of  an  officer.  He  was  put  at 
the  bar  with  the  prisoner,  and  then  Mr.  Counsellor 
Snap  thus  addressed  the  bench  : — 

"  My  lord,  and  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  I  won't  keep 
you  long.  The  prisoner,  David  Dreddon,  the  two  men 
who  were  killed  by  Lord  Squander,  and  this  George 
Gregory,  are  leagued  together.     A  band  of  more  infa- 

29 


338  BLUCHER. 

mous  characters  the  links  of  roguery  surely  never  con- 
nected together.  It  was  this  George  Gregory  who  told 
the  other  three  what  we  have  heard  from  his  own  lips 
was  uttered  at  the  Blackleg  public  house.  He  arranged 
the  plot.  For  he  was  present  at  one  of  the  coffee 
houses  when  the  three  large  bills  of  money  were  paid 
into  Lord  Squander's  hands.  He  knew  from  his  valet 
the  day  when  his  lordship  intended  to  ride  to  his  lord- 
ship's country  house.  He  had  arranged  the  plot  in  this 
wise  :  the  three  other  men  were  to  meet  his  lordship, 
and  demand  his  money,  while  he,  George  Gregory, 
should  await  the  issue  at  a  distance,  in  order  that,  in 
case  of  sudden  emergency,  he  might  ride  in  to  their  re- 
lief. But  when  he  observed,  from  his  lurking  place, 
that  his  companions  were  wholly  worsted,  he  threw 
aside  his  arms  and  disguise,  and  took  to  his  heels. 
Hoping  thereby  to  escape  detection,  he  has  this  day, 
with  consummate  assurance,  come  forward  to  criminate 
his  wretched  companion  at  the  bar." 

But  I  cannot  give  a  further  account  of  the  trial. 
Suffice  it  to  say,  that  several  totally  unexpected  wit- 
nesses arose,  and  by  their  unwavering  testimony  estab- 
lished a  chain  of  circumstantial  evidence  which  brought 
home  the  guilt  to  the  prisoners.  In  fact,  so  incapable 
were  they  of  rebutting  the  charges,  that  they  at  length 
both  confessed  every  tittle  of  the  endictment,  and  sen- 
tence of  death  was  pronounced  upon  D.  Dredden.  In 
a  fortnight's  time  he  was  executed,  and  George  Greg- 
ory was  transported  for  seven  years.  He  now  lives 
at  New  South  Wales ;  and,  by  the  latest  news  from 
thence,  I  hear  that  he  was  well  whipped  for  picking  the 
pocket  of  the  governor. 


BLUCHER.  339 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

Being  a  somewhat  lengthy  Piece  of  musty  Morality,  joined  to  a  Speci- 
men of  Amiability  and  Tenderness  in  High  Life. 

The  preceding  adventure  of  Lord  Squander's,  as  he 
reviewed  it  and  its  consequences,  gradually  worked  a 
very  decisive  change  in  his  character.  It  showed  him 
the  preposterous  folly  of  the  course  he  was  pursuing 
— that  vice  and  subtlety  lurk  beneath  all  the  apparent 
virtue  and  openness  of  the  worldling — and  that  the 
glittering  sunshine  of  fashion,  although  it  may  dazzle, 
bewilder,  and  astonish  for  a  moment,  too  frequently 
lights  the  path  of  its  deluded  votaries  to  an  untimely 
— a  dishonourable  grave.  He  beheld  it,  in  prospect, 
suddenly  tear  off  its  mask — assume  its  native  hideous- 
ness,  and  point  its  hapless  victim  to  a  suicidal  end. 
He  himself,  as  far  as  he  had  gone,  was  an  illustration 
hereof.  He  had  entered  upon  the  tempting  scenes  of 
folly  and  dissipation,  with  all  the  fierce  ardour  of  de- 
sire and  exuberance  of  youthful  feeling.  He  looked 
delightedly  upon  the  flowery  bank — but  discerned  not 
the  envenomed  serpent  lurking  beneath  it.  What  had 
fashion  done  for  him  1  It  had  corrupted  his  morals — 
embarrassed  his  fortune — enervated  his  mind.  As  he. 
took,  one  fine  July  evening,  a  melancholy  retrospect  of 
his  past  life,  he  was  fully  sensible  of  all  the  bitterness  of 
his  situation.  Few  feel  the  unkindnesses  and  decep- 
tions of  mankind  so  keenly  as  youth.  Accustomed, 
themselves,  to  look  upon  the  world  as  a  theatre,  upon  a 
large  scale,  where  noble  and  honourable  actions  were 
displayed — where  virtuous  examples  were  admired,  re- 
spected, and  imitated,  and  where  any  incipient  scenes 
of  villany  were  hurried  from  the  sight  of  all  ranks  of 
the  community — they  enter  upon  the  scenes  them- 
selves, as  actors.  They  see,  to  their  dismay  and  con- 
sternation, vice  triumphant — setting  its  foot  upon  the 
neck  of  insulted  virtue,  amid   millions  of  infatuated 

p  2 


340  BLUCHER. 

wretches,  who  raise  a  discordant  yell  of  satisfaction, 
as  the  monstrous  and  damnable  pageant  proceeds. 
Let  my  young  friends  (for  I  am  not  without  hope,  that 
in  the  course  of  my  adventures  I  have  obtained  many 
such,  to  whom  I  take  this  opportunity  of  presenting  my 
affectionate  remembrance)  endeavour  to  depict  to  them- 
selves the  feelings  of  grief  and  disgust  which  throng 
within  the  bosom  of  virtuous  youth,  on  beholding  such 
a  lamentable  spectacle. 

Somewhat  in  the  same  channel  with  these  remarks, 
ran  the  reflections  of  Lord  Squander.  His  adventures 
with  the  robbers,  and  the  concomitants  elicited  on  the 
trial,  had  been  transferred  with  malignant  eagerness, 
from  column  to  column  of  the  diurnal,  hebdomadal,  and 
monthly  press — and  retailed  in  every  party  of  high  life, 
with  the  most  mortifying,  and  even  criminal  exaggera- 
tions. Lady  Smirk  confidently  informed  her  very  dear 
friend,  the  Honourable  Miss  Emcraldina  Joanna  Louisa 
Harrington^  that  she  had  it  from  unquestionable  au- 
thority—  in  fact,  she  would  mention  the  name  of  the 
party,  did  not  delicacy forb'ul — that  Lord  Squander  had 
actually  formed  a  league  with  his  vile  companions,  to 
rob  on  the  highway,  (it  might  have  been  a  frolic,  but 
yet,  she  thought  it  a  very  odd  coincidence  that  his  lord- 
ship, just  about  that  time,  had  lost  a  large  sum  at  an  E. 
O.  table — but  she  scorned  mean  suggestions,)  after  the 
example  of  Prince  Henry,  FalstafF,  and  their  compan- 
ions, at  Gad's  Hill.  On  hearing  this,  Miss  Emeraldina 
Joanna  Louisa  Harrington  faithfully  carried  it  to  the 
august  ears  of  a  royal  dukey  with  a  trifling  addition 
of  her  own,  to  wit,  that  she  had  heard  it  confidently 
remarked,  that  his  lordship  was  very  deeply  implicated 
in  the  tremendous  crimes  of  a  late  celebrated  defaulter, 
(Mr.  F.,)  and  received  from  that  gentleman,  not  more 
than  two  months  since,  seven  thousand  pounds,  as  a  re- 
ward (this  was  whispered,  as  though  she  were  jealous 
of  a  spirit's  listening  to  her  words)  for  a  slight  and  in- 
significant service — merely  imitating  another  person's 
writing,  and  putting  the  signature  at  the  bottom  of  a 


BLUCHER.  341 

bank  post  bill.  His  royal  highness  then  whispered 
to  a  noble  marquis  what  the  fair  lady  had  communi- 
cated to  him,  hinting,  at  the  same  time,  whether  it  were 
not  likely  that  he,  Lord  Squander,  might  have  rather 
more  to  do  than  he  wight,  with  his  uncle,  the  Earl  of 

,  who  was  at  the  head  of  a  lofty  and  important 

situation  of  government.  Thus  each  person  added  a 
darker  shade  to  the  character  of  this  unfortunate  young 
nobleman.  He  could  not  now  show  his  face  at  a  rout 
or  a  dinnerparty,  without  observing  a  smile,  and  being 
tortured  with  listening  to  a  suppressed  titter. 

But  the  worst  of  all  was  to  come.  His  lordship  was 
on  the  eve  of  marriage  with  a  rich  and  titled  young 
heiress — and  on  going  to  her  house  one  evening,  he 
was  received  with  cold  and  scornful  haughtiness  ;  and 
informed  that  she  had  no  ambition  to  be  connected  with 
an  Old  Bailey  prosecutor,  and  a  pot  companion  of  high- 
waymen and  swindlers.  I  was  present  at  the  inter- 
view.    On  hearing  Lady 's  latter  taimt,  poor  Lord 

Squander  burst  into  a  wild  laugh,  and  left  the  house. 

CHAPTER    XXVII. 

I  don't  exactly  know  how  to  define  this  Chapter;  suppose  I  call  it — 
Beautiful  Prospects,  and  their  Effect  on  my  Mind. 

'.*  I  will  see  whether  the  air  of  Wales  is  impreg- 
nated with  villany  and  deceit,"  was  the  language  of 
Lord  Squander,  as  he  sat  in  his  travelling  carriage, 
which  rolled  swiftly  towards  Flintshire.  I  sat  oppo- 
site to  him.  He  reclined  on  his  seat,  with  his  head 
resting  pensively  on  his  hand.  Except  the  clattering  of 
the  six  horses'  hoofs,  and  the  heavy  continuous  rumbling 
of  the  carriage  wheels,  no  sound  disturbed  the  serene 
quietness  of  the  scene.  Oh  !  how  delightful  was  it  for 
me  to  snuff  up  the  fresh  and  balmy  zephyrs,  with  the 
scent  of  fragrant  nodding  forests,  verdant  vales,  and 
towering  mountains,  and  contrast  them  with  the  noxious 
— stifling — filthy  atmosphere  of  London  and  its  en- 

29* 


342  BLUCHER. 

virons  !  It  was  sunset.  The  orb  of  day  was  just 
sinking  beneath  the  distant  mountains,  and  shed  forth 
his  departing  rays  with  a  mild,  lustrous,  and  steady 
brilliancy,  over  the  rich  green  of  the  fields,  the  dappled 
and  unsteady  foliage  of  the  trees — tinted  already  with 
the  brown  of  autumn — and  the  silent  waveless  sheet  of 
a  distant  lake.  When  I  looked  through  the  carriage 
window,  upon  the  mellow,  the  placid  scenery,  I  do  pro- 
test I  seemed  ready  to  leap  out,  and  go — I  know  not 
whither  !  I  would  mount  atop  of  the  whispering  trees 
— leap  on  the  hoary  brow  of  the  silent  mountain — 
bound  over  the  green  velvet  of  the  fields — and  plunge 
into  yonder  golden-surfaced  mirrory  lake.  My  soul 
{for  I  again  repeat  it,  dogs  have  soule)  seemed  purified 
and  revived  with  these  exquisite  breezes. 

Poor  Lord  Squander  even  raised  himself  up,  and 
looking  through  the  window,  gazed  on  the  beautiful 
prospect  with  melancholy  listlessness.  He  sat  down 
again — looked  earnestly  at  me,  and  bursting  into  tears, 
said,  "  Laridon  !-*-Laridon ! — thou  wilt  not  leave  me  ! 
Come  hither!"1  I  sprang  to  him — he  put  his  arms 
round  me,  and  wept  on  my  neck.  I  don't  like  this 
grief — for  it  played  strange  pranks  with  me.  My  heart 
seemed  bursting.  I  knew  not  what  was  the  matter 
with  me.  I  wish  I  could  have  eased  myself  with 
words,  like  men  ;  but  that  hath  been  denied  to  me.  I 
whined  piteously — and  wagged  my  tail — and  that  was 
the  only  visible  symptom  of  my  love  that  I  could  have 
given,  except  my  pressing  closer  and  closer  to  him, 
and  fondly  licking  his  hands.  I  thought — oh,  if  a  rob- 
ber was  to  attack  my  beloved  master ! — whip  me  ten 
times  round  St,  Paul's,  if  I  would  not  play  the  ven- 
geance with  him. 

******* 

I  know  not  whether  there  may  be  some  who  will 
condemn  my  prosing  sentimentality :  be  it  so.  I  am 
Blucher.  I  never  did  a  thing  of  which  I  need  be 
ashamed — pugh  !  those  black  puddings  do  haunt  me 
cruelly !     I  mean,  always  excepting  that  unlucky  cir- 


BLUCHER.  343 

cumstance.  And  being  such  a  dog,  I  am  bold,  and  do 
consider  myself  at  liberty  to  write  what  I  like.  But 
this  and  the  preceding  chapters  have  exhausted — that 
is,  for  the  present — my  stock  of  observation  on  scenery 
and  human  character ;  and  I  much  fear  they  are  the 
driest  in  my  history  :  yet  I  console  myself  with  a  very 
philosophical  sentiment";  that  he  who  has  eaten  ripe 
blooming  peaches  all  his  life,  ought,  when  need  be,  not 
to  repine  at  exercising  his  teeth  upon  a  raw  potato. 
Benignant  reader — do  thou  digest  well  this  savoury 
apophthegm. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

Philosophical  Student  of  a  Day. 

To  Lord  Squander  had  been  proffered  the  cup  of  the 
world's  false  pleasures — he  had  rashly  raised  it  to  his 
lips — and,  in  a  state  of  half-maddened  excitement, 
quaffed  off  its  vicious  contents,  even  to  the  dregs  :  in 
his  mouth  they  were  sweet — but  in  his  belly  bitter. 
This  had  taught  him  a  useful  lesson.  In  fact,  he  was 
surfeited — satiated  :  he  nauseated  the  bare  idea  of  a 
repetition  of  the  dose.  What  was  he  to  do  then  !  Live 
he  must — but  how  1  He  was  still  young,  and  full  of 
the  sanguine,  buoyant  spirits  of  youth.  He  had  con- 
siderable talent — respectable  personal  attractions — 
and  a  noble  income — but  what  would  have  become  of 
all  these  advantages  in  a  month's  time,  had  he  pursued 
his  former  pleasure-taking  system  1  He  was  aware  of 
this.  He  thought  on  it  long,  patiently — and,  as  he 
conceived  it,  acutely  and  wisely.  A  sudden  scheme 
of  total  reformation  in  his  life  and  habits  struck  his 
fancy.  He  was  instantly  convinced  (like  all  young 
men)  of  its  feasibility.  He  resolved  to  put  it  in  prac- 
tice. Reader,  what  thinkest  thou  this  mighty  scheme 
was  ?  I  will  tell  thee  in  a  few  and  simple  words. 
The  Right  Honourable  Lord  Squander  resolved  to  turn 


344  BLUCHEIt. 

recluse — and  to  devote  his  days  and  nights  to  profound 
study — and  every  Sabbath  to  the  practice  of  benevo- 
lence. An  organized  plan  was  soon  struck  out ;  he 
viewed  it  with  enthusiasm,  as  he  copied  it  on  a  re- 
splendency adorned  sheet  of  embossed  ivory  paper, 
which  he  gave  orders  should  be  encased  in  a  superb 
frame.  Well,  in  a  few  days  came  home  this  "  plan." 
It  was  forthwith  suspended  above  the  large  mirror  in  the 
front  room  of  his  antiquated  mansion.  The  first  morn- 
ing he  sat  looking  at  it  with  intense  gratification.  We 
will  give  our  readers  a  copy  of  it. 

"  A  brief  synopsis  of  the  plan  I  have  resolved  to 
adopt,  for  accomplishing  the  great  purpose  of  reforma- 
tion of  my  mind  and  manners  : — 

"  I.  Ascertain  what  is  the  great  object  of  my  living 
in  the  world.  This  I  conceive  to  be  two  fold :  the 
promotion  of  the  present  and  eternal  interest  of  myself 
and  fellow-creatures. 

"  II.  By  what  means  am  I  to  endeavour  to  fulfil  it? 

"  1.  By  calm  and  profound  investigation  of  mankind, 
in  their  relative  states  and  conditions,  in  order  that  I 
may  be  qualified  to  discover  such  means  as  are  appro- 
priate to  their  benefit ;  and  that  I  may  be  enabled  to 
use  them  properly. 

"  2.  For  this  purpose  is  necessary — abstemious  liv- 
ing, &c.  A  regular  scheme  of  study  ;  to  prosecute 
which  I  must  have  uninterrupted  seclusion. 

"  N.B.  I  do  not  mean  to  exclude  Laridon,  my  be- 
loved dog :  his  presence  will  be  at  once  a  gratifica- 
tion and  incentive  to  study :  ergo,  Esto  perpetua  me- 
cum,  LaridoneF 

I  will  just  say,  en  passant,  that  this  admission  which 
he  gave  me  to  his  most  retired  moments,  speaks 
volumes  in  my  favour — but  I  love  modesty.  We  shall 
now  see  how  Lord  Squander  persevered  in  his  devout 
scheme  for  man's  amelioration. 

Squander  Hall  was  situated  in  Flintshire,  near  the 
village  of  Holywell.  It  was  a  noble  relic  of  antiquity, 
with  this  exception,  however,  to  the  usual  class  of 


BLUOHER.  345 

such  "  relics,"  that,  though  venerable  with  the  impress 
of  ancient  times,  it  was  also  adapted  to  modern  resi- 
dence. If  you  looked  at  it  from  the  Carglynngharydd 
hills,  you  would  think  that  the  architect  had  been  puz- 
zled whether  to  make  it  a  castle  or  a  country  mansion. 
It  is  true,  there  was  no  moat  round  it ;  nor  did  a  pon- 
derous drawbridge  need  to  be  rattled  down  with  omi- 
nous clank,  for  the  reception  of  every  visiter ;  nor  were 
there  the  three  ballia,  nor  the  embattled  rampart,  of 
fortified  places :  but  then  there  were  pepper-box  tur- 
rets almost  innumerable;  and  the  angles  of  the  build- 
ing were  rounded  off  into  towers,  with  loopholes  in 
them,  in  a  very  warlike  fashion.  It  was  almost  buried 
among  hoary  trees,  and  was  built  in  a  deep,  silent,  and 
sequestered  vale  ;  in  which,  however,  at  night,  could 
be  heard  the  deep  but  soft  gushing  of  St.  Winifred's 
Well.  Now,  in  that  part  of  the  edifice  which  looks 
upon  the  blue,  distant  Welsh  moimtains,  was  situated 
his  lordship's  library :  an  octagonal  chamber,  whose 
sides  were  piled  with  books.  The  morning  after  his 
'« plan,"  imbedded  in  most  gorgeous  gilding,  had  glis- 
tened on  his  front  room  wall,  he  was  so  fortified  in  his 
mind  by  a  prospect  of  the  pleasures  of  study  and  se- 
clusion, that,  after  breakfast,  he  hurried  to  his  library — 
commanding  that  no  one  should  disturb  him,  on  the 
most  learful  penalty.  He  then  locked  and  bolted  the 
door,  and,  in  the  first  place,  his  breast  swelling  with 
all  the  juvenile  rapture  of  anticipation,  leaped  twice 
across  the  room.  He  then  threw  up  the  window,  which 
looked  on  a  beautiful  prospect,  and  leaned  through  it, 
fondly  imbibing  the  rich  fragrance  of  the  air.  After 
about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  spent  in  this  way,  he  con- 
ceived his  mind  to  be  sobered  down  into  that  quiet  and 
mellow  frame  which  was  required  for  the  successful 
commencement  of  his  studies.  But,  as  he  walked 
slowly  past  his  book  shelves,  with  his  arms  on  his 
breast,  the  thought  struck  him — where  shall  I  begin 
my  researches  1 — bah ! — with  ancient  literature,  to  be 
sure.     He  walked  to  the  classical  department  of  hit 

p3 


346  BLUCHER. 

library,  whose  dusky  volumes  reposed  in  all  the  silent 
dignity  of  dusty  slumber.  He  took  down  Virgil:  he 
remembered  faintly  the  sweet  pastoral  descriptions  in 
which  he  abounded.  That  was  just  the  thing  he  want- 
ed :  but  now  a  second  thought  recurred  to  him :  he 
had  forgotten  how  to  read  it! — 

"  Tityre,  tu  patulae  recubans  sub  tegmine  fagi 
Sylvestrem  tenui  musam  meditaris  avena." 

He  remembered  as  much  about  it  as  he  knew  of  the 
Singhalese  language.  This  was  provoking — bitterly 
vexatious.  He  regretted  the  loss  of  his  scholastic 
literature :  he  thought,  and  thought,  and  thought,  till, 
with  frantic  energy  he  exclaimed,  "  Farewell,  a  long 
farewell  to  all  my  study  !"  And  then,  I  am  sorry  to  tell 
thee  of  it,  reader,  he  flung  the  book  down  on  the  floor 
with  spiteful  vehemence. 

And  is  this  the  conduct  of  a  philosopher  ? — whis- 
pered something  within  him,  as  I  conjecture  ;  for  he 
presently  stooped  down,  and  picked  up  the  book  with 
great  tenderness,  as  if  wishing  to  atone  for  his  unmer- 
ited insult.  He  continued  turning  over  the  leaves 
with  a  kind  of  soft,  languid,  listless  inattention.  At 
length  he  ejaculated,  "  Oh,  how  I  wish  I  had  retained 
my  college  learning !  how  many  poor  fellows,  with 
scarcely  a  coat  to  their  backs,  or  shoes  for  their  feet, 
are  many  degrees  higher  than  me  in  the  scale  of  learn- 
ing, and  consequently  of  real  intellectual  enjoyment! 
What  are  the  adventitious  advantages  of  rank  and  for- 
tune, compared  with  their  unalienable  possessions  ? 
they  are  safe  from  the  contingencies  of  sorrow  and 
misfortune,  and  supply  to  their  possessor  a  deep,  clear, 
and  constant  stream  of  peaceful  happiness  ;  while  I — 
alas  !  what  is  rank  ?  what  are  riches  ?  The  former  is 
a  ball,  to  be  shot  at  by  the  arrows  of  envy  and  malice, 
the  latter  '  make  unto  themselves  wings,  and  fly  away!' 
and  then  what  becomes  of  me ;   I  am  the  jackdaw, 


BLL'CHER.  S47 

stripped  of  the  peacock's  feathers.  I  am,  in  fact,  re- 
duced to  the  level  of  the  meanest  Irish  bog-trotter. 
Deplorable  misfortune  !  I  will  not  be  as  I  am  any 
longer.  I  will  study,  if  I  study  myself  into  my  grave  ! 
The  flare  of  the  midnight  lamp  shall  leave  a  ghastly 
sallowness  on  my  complexion  ;  and  the  sultry  flash  of 
the  noonday  sun  shall  irradiate  my  wrinkled  and  care- 
contracted  forehead  !"  Doubtless  all  this  was  very 
fine,  and  appropriate  for  an  enthusiastic  young  man  of 
two-and-twenty. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  saw  Lord  Squander  seated  at 
a  table,  with  a  reading  frame  before  him,  on  which 
was  stretched  the  redoubtable  Virgil  :  flanked  on  on© 
side  by  Ainsworth's  Dictionary — on  the  other  by  the 
Latin  Grammar — and  on  his  lap  (although  he  tried  to 
conceal  it,  even  from  himself)  was  placed  a  copy  of 
Dryden's  translation  of  Virgil !  After  half  an  hour's 
study,  he  mastered  the  first  ten  lines  ;  construing  and 
parsing  with  tolerable  accuracy.  Then  he  discovered 
that  his  head  ached  ;  secondly,  that  his  eyes  smarted; 
thirdly,  that  the  long  difficult  Latin  lines  seemed  to 
quiver  mistily  before  him  :  and  lastly,  he  found  out,  al- 
though he  struggled  sorely  against  it,  that  it  was  far 
pleasanter  to  look  out  upon  the  fresh  and  luxuriant 
green  prospect  through  the  window.  Still  he  remained 
heroically  in  the  chair,  with  his  head  inclined  intently 
towards  his  books.  He  presently  encountered  a  diffi- 
cult line  ;  it  was  obstinate — he  could  not  (query — 
icould  not)  master  it — he  angrily  rang  his  bell  for  re- 
freshment. Up  came  a  bottle  of  Sherry,  and  some 
ham,  &c.  He  partook  of  them  with  infinite  zest,  anon 
tossing  me  a  piece.  They  were  discussed,  and  taken 
away.  Then  he  returned  to  his  chair.  He  applied 
himself  to  the  tough  line  :  whether  the  wine  made  his 
faculties  more  obtuse  I  know  not — but  his  eyebrows 
were  knit  with  an  air  of  angry  impatience.  Then  he 
leaned  his  throbbing  head  on  his  hand.  By-and-by 
he  yawned  !  Yes  ! — yawn  the  second  !  Ay — yawn 
the  third !     Then  he  shut  his   grammar  with  a  very 


348  BLUCHER. 

snappish  air,  as  I  thought.  Then  he  fixed  his  eyes  on 
me  with  a  long  and  melancholy  stare.  I  gazed  at  him, 
in  my  turn,  with  a  brisk  and  vivacious  expression — 
he  beckoned  to  me — I  was  fearful  to  approach,  re- 
membering the  orders  he  had  given  to  his  servants, 
and  the  penalties  I  should  incur,  if  I  broke  an  intri- 
cate chain  of  thought ;  so  I  waited  for  a  more  decisive 
signal.  He  whistled,  and  clapped  his  hands  :  I  sprang 
to  him — I  frisked  about  him :  his  face  gradually  turned 
towards  the  window :  the  sun  laughed  in  the  sky  at 
the  beauteous  green  of  the  earth.  Poor  Lord  Squander  ! 
He  looked,  and  looked,  and  looked  again !  He  sighed ; 
it  was  too  much  for  him.  u  Confound  the  musty,  fus- 
ty old  books  !"  said  he,  as  he  shut  them  all  angrily,  and 
threw  them  in  a  corner.  "I've  had  enough  study  (! ! !) 
for  one  morning,  at  any  rate.  I'll  order  my  horse — 
I'll  scour  the  country,  and  then  come  home  to  a  rare 
dinner.  To-morrow,  of  course,  I  shall  be  revived." 
The  door  was  opened  ;  half  an  hour  saw  him  bound- 
ing swiftly,  on  the  back  of  a  noble  horse,  across  a 
beauteous  country,  and  me  frisking  and  leaping  with 

wild  delight  by  his  side. 

*  *  *  #  •  * 

At  seven  o'clock  he  returned  to  Squander  Hall 
glowing  with  health  and  spirits — gave  his  horse  to  his 
attending  groom — ate  a  rich  and  luxurious  dinner;  then 
dessert,  and  drank  two  bottles  of  Champagne,  and 
about  twelve  o'clock  he  found  his  way  to  his  bed- 
chamber. So  ended  the  lirst  day's  study  of  Lord 
Squander  :  he  had  actually  achieved  the  conquest  of 
ten  lines  of  Virgil !  "  Esto  perpetua  mecum,  Lari* 
done  /" 


BLUCHER. 


349 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

Being  a  very  masterly  Essay  on  Early  Rising 

The  next  morning  was  bright  and  beautiful  The 
^BHmatedpnmdlyto  his  throne  up  the  deenenin. 
ring  with  their  music  ;  and  their  notes  were  echoed 
back  by  the  mellow  throats  of  thousands  of  unseen 
choristers — the  thrush,  the  blackbird,  and  the  nightin- 
ga-i.  T}ie  f0iiage  0f  the  trees  was  rich  and  deeply 
green— a*,  sward  which  carpeted  the  earth  was  soft 
and  delicious.  Tae  zephyrs  swept  refreshingly  along 
fluttering  leaves,  bud*,  and  flowers — collecting  their 
fragrance,  and  then  mounting  aloft— they  perfumed  the 
whole  atmosphere.  The  maidens  wing  merrily  as  they 
sat  milking  their  cows.  St.  Winifred's  Well  gushed 
with  sparkling  freshness — scattering  its  crystal  through 
innumerable  rivulets,  which  flowed,  fertilizing  the  coun- 
try. 

"  How  the  hounds  and  horn 
Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  morn, 
From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill 
Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill : 
Sometimes  walking  not  unseen 
By  hedge- row  elms,  on  hillocks  green, 
Right  against  the  eastern  gate 
Where  the  great  sun  begins  his  state, 

Robed  in  dames  and  amber  light, 
The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight ; 
While  the  ploughman  near  at  hand. 
Whistles  o'er  the  furrowed  land  ; 
And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe, 
And  the  mower  whets  his  sythe, 
And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale 
Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 

Lo !  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleasures, 
While  the  landscape  round  it  measures — 
Russet  lawns  and  fallows  gray. 
Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray ; 
Mountains,  on  whose  barren  breast 
The  labouring  clouds  do  often  rest ; 

30 


<j50  BLUCHEB. 

Meadows  trim,  with  daisies  pied, 
Shallow  brooks,  and  rivers  wide  ; 
Towers  and  battlements  it  sees, 
Bosom'd  high  in  tufted  trees!  * 

Such  is  the  enchanting  picture  drawn  by  the  mighty 
nencilof  John  Milton,  which  I  heard  Lord  Squander 
S  about  a  week  ago-and  that  is  how  I  came  to 
SeUhere-of  «he>leas„re  of  a^early^mormng 
louna  me  young,  the  gay  Lord  Squander  lying  on  a 
bed  of  yielding  down,  half  smothered  in  the  bed- 
clothes, inhaling  the  impure  atmosphere  of  a  clqs<- 
bedchamber  !  Much  as  I  loved  him,  I  cried  "  Fj  -  JV  ' 
upon  him,"  from  the  very  bottom  of  my  s?~2'  as  *  st0°d 
scratching  on  the  outside  of  his  doo*-  •  Six  o'clock ! — 
seven  o'clock ! !— eight  o'clock  ■' !  !— half  past  eight ! ! ! ! 
— nine  o'clock  ! ! ! !  ! — a«^  Lord  Squander  fast  asleep  ! 
Monstrous  sluggard !  I  am  latterly  fallen  into  such 
a  moralizing  strain,  that  I  am  resolved  to  indulge  in  it, 
on  the  present  occasion,  with  a  sincere  view  to  the 
benefit  of  my  juvenile  readers — if  I  should  happen  to 
have  any — and  of  most  of  my  mature  readers  too. 

I  hope  they  will  not  deny  that  they  lie  late  in  bed 
every  morning ;  very  good — this  is  the  foundation  of 
my  discourse ;  and  now  for  the  superstructure.  I  will 
inquire — 

I.  Why  do  they  do  it  ? 

II.  What  do  they  gain  by  it  ? 

III.  What  do  they  lose  ? 

IV.  Advise  them  to  amend  this  evil  habit,  and  ex- 
plain the  theory  and  practice  of  early  rising.  And  in 
these  I  will  be  very — very  brief — and  then  proceed 
with  my  history. 

I.  Why  do  they  do  it  1  All  in  good  time.  A  friend 
calls  another  to  rise  at  six  o'clock — receives  a  yawning 
answer  u  Y — e — s  !" — and  leaves  him,  expecting  his 
arrival  down  stairs  every  moment.    But  what  does  the 

*  Milton's  L'Atkgro. 


BLUCHER.  351 

sleeper?     When  he  was  aroused,  he  was  in  a  pleasant 
dream — which  the  voice  of  his  friend  interrupted.    He 
answered  peevishly,  in  order  to  get  rid  of  him — and 
then  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  striving  in  vain  to 
recall  the  illusion.     So  on  for  half  an  hour.     Up  comes 
his  friend  again — expostulates  with  him,  and  receives 
for  answer,  that  he  will  be  down  in  half  a  quarter  of  a 
second.     Waits  for  him,  and   sits  at  the  street  door. 
What  does  the  sleeper? — yawns — stretches  his  legs — 
pulls  off  half  the  clothes — finds  it  is  cold — very  cold  ; 
grumbles,  that  "  it  is    unkind   to   call   him   so  early, 
and  so  cold  a  morning,"  &c. — yields  to  the  influence 
of  sleep — and  in   a  few  minutes   is  as  fast  as   ever. 
Seven  o'clock — up  comes  his  persevering  friend — calls 
him  again — and  is  answered,  "  I  am  half  dressed ! !" 
down  goes  this  Job  of  a  friend  to  await  his  coming,  a 
third  time.     But  what  does  the  sleeper? — complains 
of  langour,  feebleness,  headache — cuddles  in  the  nice 
warm  clothes — mutters  the  soporific    word   "  drowsi- 
ness " — and  in  a   moment  is  fast  asleep.     In  half  an 
hour  up  comes  this  example  of  patience,  his  friend,  for 
the  fourth  time — calls  him — receives    for  answer  (a 
great  falsehood,  that  "  he  has  only  his  boots  to  put 
on  '."—while  the  only  thing  he  has  on  is  his  shirt ! 
He  begins  to  reason  about  his  sluggishness — cannot 
help  condemning  it — resolves  to  get  up,  and  strengthens 
his  determination  by  a  loud  snore — and  then  is  in  deep 
slumber.     In  the  mean  while  it  is  eight — his  friend  is 
anoTy — leaves  the  house,  and  resolves  to  call  him  no 
more.     Our  sleeper  perhaps  finds  his  way  down  stairs 

by  half  past  nine  o'clock.     Ladies  and  gentlemen ! — is 

not  this  a  true  representation  of  your  habits  ?     I  do  not 

doubt  it. 

II.   What  is  gained  by  this  practice  ?     Two  things  : 

1.  Bodily  ill  health;    2.  Languor  and  feebleness   of 

mind. 

1.  As  respects  the  body.     Late  rising  disorders  the 

stomach,  the  nerves,  and  stagnates  the  blood.     The 

former  it  fills  with  bile ;  the  second  it  weakens  and 


352  BLUCHER. 

irritates  ;  the  third  it  drives  up  to  the  head,  and  there 
it  remains.  Hence  arises  a  bellyache,  (I  must  use 
plain  language,  my  dears,)  and  loss  of  appetite  ;  sec- 
ondly, induces  melancholy,  vapours,  &c,  and  pro- 
motes great  fretfulness  of  temper.  Thirdly,  it  pro- 
duces headache — determination  to  apoplexy,  &c. 

2.  As  it  respects  the  mind.  It  destroys  it,  in  time, 
altogether.  The  body  always  influences  the  mind — 
there  is  an  inexplicable  sympathy  between  them ;  bn 
yet  it  is  undeniable,  although  almost  unintelligible  ;  it 
does  everything  deleterious  to  the  mind,  in  fact — for 
if  the  morning  is  the  best  time  for  its  exercise,  and 
that  part  of  the  day  is  spent  in  its  stagnation — what  is 
the  result  ? 

III.  What  do  they  lose  ?  Why,  of  course,  accord- 
ing to  my  previous  reasoning,  they  lose  their  health  of 
body,  and  strength  of  mind.  Due  and  proper  exercise 
in  the  morning  invigorates  the  whole  frame :  it  spreads 
a  bright  and  glowing  crimson  hue  upon  the  counte- 
nance— gives  strength  and  buoyancy  to  the  limbs  ;  and 
creates  a  most  ravenous  appetite.  All  this  they  lose  ! 
They  stalk  about  at  noon,  weak,  palid,  shivering,  ca- 
daverous wretches  ;  and  it  is  their  own  fault.  Dost 
thou,  reader,  remember  my  description  of  the  beauties 
of  the  morning,  and  that  of  Milton,  which  I  gave  thee 
a  page  or  so  back  ? — didst  thou  relish  them — and  de- 
siderate the  reality,  not  the  shadowy  description? 
Then,  by  lying  late  in  bed  in  the  morning,  thou  has  lost 
it  all — all — the  fairest,  most  beautiful  portion  of  the 
day  !  In  the  morning,  nature  cometh  forth  arrayed  in 
all  the  pride  and  freshness  of  her  verdant  beauty — she 
concealeth  nothing  from  thee,  in  all  her  blooming  do- 
mains ;  but  thou,  for  the  paltry  gratification  of  a  slug- 
gish disposition,  choosest  to  let  her  pass  on  unregarded  ! 
Fy  on  thee  ! 

IV.  /  shall  now  advise  them  how  to  amend  this  evil 
habits  and  explain  the  tlicory  and  practice  of  early 
rising.  I  earnestly  implore  ye,  my  fair  and  benignant 
readers — whether  ladies  or  gentlemen,  I  care  not — yo 


BLUCHER.  353 

are  both  equally  in  fault — to  break  off  from  these  ig<- 
noble  trammels.  He  that  binds  them  on  you — sloth — 
is  your  greatest,  your  mortal  enemy  !  He  is  exerting 
all  his  influence  to  destroy  you  !  Will  you  tamely 
submit  to  it  ?  Will  you  lie  down  calmly  in  your  bed, 
and  look  upon  him,  stripping  you  of  all  your  comforts 
— -one  by  one — without  starting  up  into  vigorous  action, 
and  rending  him  ?  Ladies,  if  you  have  no  higher 
motive — look  out  for  your  credit.     How  should  you 

like  your  lover  to  call  some  morning,  and  inquire  " 

Miss ? — "    "  Oh,  sir,  missis  doesn't  rise  till  half 

past  nine  o'clock  ! ! !"  He  will  forthwith  go  away 
grunting,  "  A  pretty  slatternly  vixen,  this,  for  a  wife  !" 
Have  ye  no  regard  for  your  personal  beauty?  Lovers 
like  a  fresh,  rosy,  blooming  cheek — a  cherry,  grape- 
like lip — a  bright,  lucid,  cheerful  eye — but  you  refuse 
them  all ;  and  the  simple  consequence  is,  that  they 
will,  by-and-by,  refuse  you  altogether !  How  will 
they  like  to  look  constantly  upon  a  shrunken,  hollow- 
eyed,  thin-lipped,  haggard  young  woman,  with  abom- 
inably fetid  breath,  and  take  her  for  better  or  for 
worse?  Nay,  I'm  sure  they  cannot  take  her  for  ivorse. 
I  do  verily  believe  that  more  young  ladies  die  of  con- 
sumption, on  account  of  lying  late  in  bed,  than  people 
suppose  :  my  last  and  grand  argument  with  the  female 
sex,  is  this— that  the  habit  of  indulging  in  late  lying 
in  bed  generates  bad  thoughts — and  these  thoughts 
lead  to  worse  actions  ! 

And  now  for  ye,  men.  Lazy  scoundrels  that  ye  are, 
(do  not  shake  your  sticks  at  me  for  using  this  epithet 
— I  am  but  a  dog,  but  if  I  am  attacked,  I  believe  I  have 
got  an  indifferent  good  set  of  teeth,)  what  do  you  ?  the 
lords  of  the  creation,  (lords  of  laziness,  ye  ought  rather 
to  be  called,)  what  mean  ye  by  indulging  in  this  shame- 
ful— this  debasing  habit?  where  is  your  manhood? 
Beneath  the  blankets  till  near  ten  o'clock  every  morn- 
ing !  Where  is  your  reputation  ? — ditto  !  When  is 
your  time  for  study  and  meditation  ? — ditto — ditto  ! 
How  do  you  think  people  will  like  to  encourage  you, 

30* 


354  BLUCHER. 

(especially  you  who  are  beginning  the  world,)  when 
they  know  that  instead  of  balancing  your  books — ar- 
ranging your  stock,  &c,  you  are  snoring  in  your  beds 
till  every  clerk  in  the  city  of  London  has  been  at  his 
desk  half  an  hour  ?  How  can  they  repose  any  confi- 
dence in  your  punctuality  and  assiduity  ?  Besides — 
will  you  not  allow  that  business  requires  the  whole  en- 
ergies of  your  mind  1  and  yet — fools  that  ye  are  !  ye 
spend  three  hours  every  morning  in  the  express  em- 
ployment of  their  exhaustion  !  Shame,  shame  on  you  ! 
Up,  up  !  If  you  have  a  spark  of  manhood  in  you,  do 
not  linger  away  in  unprofitable  drowsiness  the  most 
precious  hour  of  the  day. 

I  find  I  have  yet  to  explain  the  theory  and  practice 
of  early  rising.  This  sounds  very  grand  indeed. 
"  Theory  and  practice"  But  I  shall  discuss  the  sub- 
ject in  few  and  simple  words.  The  theory  of  early 
rising,  is  to  make  up  your  mind — to  resolve  on  ihg  sub- 
ject ;  the  practice  is,  to  second  your  mind  in  its  reso- 
lutions with  your  body.  Up!  up!  drowsy  citizens! 
the  lark,  the  blackbird,  the  thrush,  the  cuckoo,  are  all 
singing  for  you,  and  waiting  your  approach — some  in 
the  air,  and  some  on  the  trees  ;  go  forth  to  hear  them 
: — or  you  must  trudge  down  to  the  city,  and  be  stunned 
all  day  with  the  monotonous  buzzing  of  your  customers 
and  tradesfolk  !  I  have  not  time  to  say  more  than  that 
—if  you  love  Blucher,  and  respect  his  sayings,  acqui- 
esce in  the  justness  of  his  remarks,  and  do  you  your- 
selves reduce  them  to  practice.  I  can  only  add,  that 
in  spurring  you  to  it,  I  am  perfectly  disinterested. 

CHAPTER    XXX. 

At  exactly  three  quarters  of  an  hour  past  eleven, 
the  next  morning,  Lord  Squander  came  down  to  break- 
fast. Chocolate,  rolls,  ham,  coffee,  wine,  Cheshire 
cheese,  with  many  other  articles,  formed  a  heteroge- 
neous meal.     He  of  course  took  a  retrospect  of  yes- 


BLUOHER.  355 

terday ;  and  this  divided  itself  into  two  parts :  that 
portion  of  the  day  which  was  devoted  to  study;  and 
that  which  was  spent  in  amusement.  He  had  the  day 
before  him  ;  and  the  object  of  his  comparison  between 
the  two  was  to  determine  in  what  mode  he  would  spend 
it.  He  strove  hard  to  cling  to  the  study  part  of  the  ar- 
gument— yet  found  himself  irresistibly  drawn  to  the 
latter.  If  he  yielded  to  it — what  became  of  the  gor- 
geously framed  and  glazed  "  plan  V  With  a  desperate 
effort  he  swallowed  his  last  cup  of  chocolate — rang  the 
bell — commanded  me,  by  a  whistle,  to  follow  him — and 
shut  himself  and  me  up  in  his  study.  (I  will  here  be 
candid,  and  &ay,  that  after  I  had  tasted  the  delights  of 
yesterday's  excursion,  I  felt  a  loathing  disrelish  for  the 
study  ;  of  what  service  was  I  there  1  I  could  do  no- 
thing but  sleep.)  Down  he  sat  himself,  most  reso- 
lutely, to  the  study  of  Virgil.  But  now  I  observed  a 
constant  air  of  restraint  on  his  countenance.  At  length 
he  took  his  eyes  from  his  book — leaned  himself  back 
in  his  chair — and  drummed  on  the  table  with  his  fin- 
gers :  then  he  fell  a  whistling.  "  Alas  !"  sighed  I  within 
my  mind — "  alas  for  his  plan  of  study  and  man's 
amelioration .'"  Suddenly  he  leaped  off  his  chair.  A 
bright  thought  had  struck  him.  He  rang  the  bell  vio- 
lently ;  his  obsequious  valet  entered. 

"  Guillaume  .'" 

"  Vhat  is  your  lordship's  pleasure — s'il  vous  plait, 
my  lor?" 

"  Do  you  know  if  there  is  an  architect — a  designer, 
that  is,  in  the  village  ?M 

"  Un  architected  mon  bon  seigneur  ?  dans  le  village  ?n 

"  Qui — QUi — 0ui,  Guillaume — you  know  what  I 
mean." 

"Oui,  monseigneur:  oui,  oui.  I  known  him  ver 
well ;  fery  good  man  indeed,  my  lor.  He  live  not  ver 
far  distante  from  de  well  o'  Sant  Vinafrede,  monseig- 
neur." 

"  Then  depart  instantly,  and  bring  him  hither." 

In  two  hours'  time  Mr.  Dludderydd,  the  Welsh  build- 


356  BLUCHER. 

er,  and  Lord  Squander,  had  settled  the  plan  of  a  small 
study,  which  was  to  be  erected  at  about  a  quarter  of  a 
mile's  distance  from  the  hall,  in  the  centre  of  a  solemn 
clump  of  oak  and  elm  trees.  The  next  morning  the 
workmen  commenced.  Delicious  was  the  bustle  of 
planning,  altering,  and  remodelling  the  new  building, 
to  Lord  Squander !  all  his  enthusiasm  revived.  Not  two 
hours  of  the  day  was  he  absent  from  the  building — ■ 
now  teasing  the  workmen  with  innumerable  questions, 
as  to  when  the  house  was  to  be  completed.  And  then 
goading  them  on  to  haste,  with  the  offers  of  drink  and 
money.  As  Lord  Squander  once  remarked,  in  my  hear- 
ing— «  he'd  soon  have  it  up  either  with  the  help  of  Bac- 
chus or  Plutus,  or  both."  At  last  he  began  to  grow 
weary  of  the  sight  of  brick,  stone,  mortar,  trowels, 
puddles,  and  all  the  other  paraphernalia  of  builders, 
just  as  the  place  was  completed.  As  soon  as  the  work- 
men had  cleared  away  the  litter  of  their  implements, 
and  the  place  looked  tidy,  he  conveyed  his  books 
thither.  It  was  a  very  neat  edifice,  something  on  the 
plan  of  a  summer  house  ;  only,  Lord  Squander,  being 
resolved  not  to  submit  to  the  temptation  of  looking 
through  a  window,  had  a  skylight  placed  round  the  con- 
ical roof,  and  no  other  windows  in  the  building.  Here 
he  sat  one  morning.  The  room  was  rather  damp,  to 
be  sure  ;  but  then  it  was  a  study,  and  his  books  lined 
the  walls.  He  sate  in  the  centre  of  the  chamber.  He 
studied  "Locke  on  the  Understanding" — at  least  the 
book  was  before  him.  He  doted  on  the  sepulchral 
stillness  of  the  scene ;  nothing  to  divert  his  attention 
— nothing  :  here  he  might  be  absorbed  in  silence.  He 
looked  at  me ;  and  was  so  penetrated  with  his  happi- 
ness, that  he  hugged  me  in  rapture.  However,  this 
subsided  ;  and  he  began  to  find  Locke  a  very  dry  study 
indeed  !  How  could  he  bear  in  mind  his  noble  meta- 
physical definitions,  and  follow  his  inexplicable  rami- 
fications ! 

Now,  be  it  known  unto  thee,  reader,  in  the  town  of 
Holly  well  there  is  a  circulating  library.     Lord  Squan- 


BLT7CHEE.  357 

der  had  seen  it.  So  he  resolved  to  send  his  man  for 
a  few  volumes,  occasionally  to  dip  into,  and  relieve 
the  tedium  of  stud)*.  His  servant  soon  returned.  He 
brought  the  "  Romance  of  the  Pyrennees,"  in  four  vol- 
umes. Lord  Squander  threw  them  carelessly  aside — 
thinking  occasionally  to  look  at  them.  But  in  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour's  time  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  first 
volume — entered  into  the  spirit  of  that  fascinatingly 
mysterious  production — and — and — and — 

Alas,  poor  Locke  !  By  teatime  Lord  Squander  had 
lost  all  recollection  of  thy  erudite  disquisitions,  and 
was  engaged  with  all  his  mind  and  spirit,  in  following 
the  scenes  of  the  bandit's  subterranean  cave  ! 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

Lord  Squander  turns  rather  Romantic  ;  a  Taste  of  his  Strange  and 
Marvellous  Adventures. 

Dear  Reader — Thou  mayst  as  well  strive  to  min- 
gle fire  with  water  as  logic  and  metaphysics  with 
novels  and  romances.  He  who  has  imbibed  a  taste 
for  the  latter  (especially  if  his  imagination  be  vivacious 
and  inflammable)  may  give  up  all  thoughts  of  the  ab- 
struser  studies,  the  discipline  of  the  understanding,  of 
which  Watts  and  Locke  were  such  illustrious  masters. 
Why  need  I  tell  thee,  then,  how  Lord  Squander  cast 
aside  his  "  Essay  on  the  Understanding"  with  scorn, 
and  betook  himself,  night  and  day,  to  the  romances  of 
Walter  Scott,  Maturin,  Jane  Porter,  Rcgina  Maria 
Roche,  Francis  Lathom,  fyc,  Sfc,  and  the  thousand 
others  who  have  immortalized  themselves  by  their  fol- 
ly ?  He  imbibed  their  spirit,  and  became  one  of  the 
most  consummate  sentimental  apes  to  be  found  in  the 
kingdom. 

Now,  forsooth,  he  must  turn  hero  of  romances ; 
and  nothing  would  suit  him  but  subterranean  caverns, 
midnight  tribunals,  disinterested    love,   and   all   the 


3f>8  BLUCHER. 

other  despicable  fiddle-faddle  whereby  men  allow  them- 
selves to  be  made  such  fools.  He  speedily  acquired  a 
snivelling  sentimentality  ;  a  false  sensibility,  which 
would  whimper  three  hours  over  the  chance-crushed 
corse  of  a  garden  snail,  and  dole  out  an  elegy  on  the 
mangled  remains  of  an  earth  worm.  In  fact,  he  was 
once  so  enamoured  of  the  keen,  dark,  bold,  fiery  eye 
(as  he  expressed  it)  of  one  of  his  tenants'  bulls,  that  he 
sought  a  little  nearer  inspection  of  it.  While  he  contem- 
plated it,  a  stream  of  wild  fancies  glowed  upon  him,  in 
the  recollection  of  some  of  the  marvellous  tales  he  had 
lately  read :  he  wished  himself  a  magician,  for  the 
bull's  sake  :  then  he  would  mount  on  his  back,  scour 
earth,  sea,  and  air,  and  play  pretty  pranks  everywhere. 
This  was  all  very  fine,  in  truth.  So  thought  Lord 
Squander  ;  and  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment,  what 
should  he  do,  but  leap  on  the  bull's  back.  But  Great 
Bob  had  not  yet  learned  how  to  be  romantic  ;  and 
consequently  was  unable  to  sympathize  with  the  ec- 
stasies of  his  noble  rider.  He  could  not  stomach 
these  "  fine  phrensies  :"  and  in  token  of  his  disapproba- 
tion thereof,  took  the  liberty  of  tossing  poor  Lord  Squan- 
der over  his  head  directly  into  an  adjoining  horsepond. 
There  his  ardour  was  a  little  cooled,  for  the  moment : 
for  believe  me,  a  plunge  unexpectedly  into  a  horse- 
pond,  and  getting  a  fragrant  soaking  therein,  is  no  very 
desirable  thing.  "  A  bull  is  a  creature  not  formed  for 
romance,"  thought  Lord  Squander,  as  he  crept  home 
shivering. 

But  then  there  was  another  species  of  romance,  as 
yet  untried.  He  could  enjoy  romantic  scenery ;  so 
he  designed  a  rare  treat  for  the  next  evening.  He 
found  means  to  procure  a  Spanish  cap,  with  sable 
plumes,  a  dark  velvet  cloak,  and  a  long  Toledo  sword. 
At  the  still  and  solemn  hour  of  midnight  he  stepped 
into  a  boat  with  muffled  oars,  and  glided  along  the 
golden  surface  of  a  lake,  surrounded  with  dark  trees. 
After  paddling  to  and  fro  till  he  felt  rather  cold,  he 
proposed  to  debark — and  so  he  did,  and  stepped  into 


ELUCHER. 


359 


the  arms  of  four  keen-eyed  fellows,  who  suspected 
him  for  a  thief  in  disguise,  gagged  him,  and  bore  him 
off  in  triumph  to  the  lock-up  hoase  at  Hollywell.  In 
the  morning,  of  course.  ^  matter  was  hushed  up  as 
well  as  possible  ;  wa  somehow  or  other  it  took  wind, 
and  ray  lor^  became  the  laugh  of  the  whole  town. 
This  ^^  tne  second  damper  of  the  fire  of  romantic 
c cling.  Alas,  that  it  should  be  at  the  mercy  of  such 
paltry  contingencies  ! 

But  presently  the  flame  burst  out  afresh ;  and  in  a 
paroxysm  of  similar  raptures,  he  accoutred  himself  in  a 
suit  of  rusty  armour  and  stalked  by  moonlight  up  the  lofty 
and  lonely  mountain  of  Glangyrhhrguistshatterheadd. 
He  was  bWinninff  to  flourish  his  creaking  lance,  in  a 
very  chivalrous  fashion,  and  was  proceeding  to  thunder 
forth  a  martial  defiance — when — what  do  you  think, 
dear  reader?  the  stout  oaken  bludgeon  of  a  bold  foot- 
pad dealt  him  rather  an  uncomfortable  thwack  upon 
the  top  of  his  steel  helmet,  which  brought  him  with 
startling  clanoour  to  the  earth.  And  a  most  romantic 
thing  it  was,  for  a  nobleman  to  lie  still,  and  be  des- 
poiled of  his  ridiculous  garb — and  have  his  pockets 
picked — and  his  hands  and  his  feet  tied  together ! 
Here  we  see,  that  impudent  knavery  for  once  got  the 
better  of  magnificent  romance  !  This  was  a  third 
damper ;  and  it  taught  Lord  Squander  a  very  useful 
lesson :  that  the  age  of  chivalry  and  deeds  of  high 
emprise  is  for  ever  passed  away — at  least  in  England. 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 

He  falls  romantically  in  Love. 

Let  me  shift  the  scene  altogether  to  London.  My 
lord  lived  in  a  superb  mansion  belonging  to  his  family, 
in  Grosvenor  Square.  He  resumed  his  intercourse 
with  high  life ;  and  his  romantic  foible  got  known  to 
every  one  with  whom  he  associated.     This  hint  is 


360 


BLUCHER. 


necessary  to  be  borne  in  mind,  to  account  for  some 
parts  of  the  following  transactions. 

It  was  a  dark,  cold,  rainy  November  night,  when 
Lord  Squander  was  riding  lmrne  in  his  carriage,  from 
a  ball  at  Almack's.  I  do  not  kno-»r  by  what  concate- 
nation of  unfortunate  circumstances  it  ,vas  tnat  ^jg 
carriage  wheels  rolled  off,  and  my  lord  roli^j  rather 
unceremoniously  into  the  gutter — to  the  infinite  oa.. 
paragement  of  his  gay  ball  dress.  A  crowd  is  easily 
gathered  in  London;  and  to  avoid  that  which  now 
congregated  round  his  fallen  vehicle,  he  resolved  to 
walk  home.  As  he  passed  the  dark  corner  of  Russel 
Square,  he  fancied  he  distinguished  the  sound  of  low 
melancholy  sobbing.  He  halted — he  listened  :  "  Yes ! 
it  must  be !"  and  he  groped  his  way  to  the  place  from 
whence  he  conjectured  the  sound  issued.  Then,  by 
all  Walter  Scott's  romances !  he  actually  discovered 
a  lady  sitting  on  the  steps  of  a  large  house.  Lord 
Squander,  as  we  have  before  said,  was  a  tender-hearted 
man  ;  a  sheer  sentimentalist :  so  he  sat  down  by  her 
side ;  and,  in  honeyed  accents,  requested  to  be  in- 
formed of  the  cause  of  her  distress.  For  a  long  while 
lie  received  no  answer. 

"  Dear  lady  !  let  me  implore  you  to  communicate  to 
me  the  cause  of  your  deep  sorrow  ?" 

"  Ah !  alas  !  ah !"  ejaculated  the  weeping  incognito. 

"  Let  me  be  honoured  with  hearing  a  part  of  your 
grief?"  whispered  Lord  Squander,  in  the  gentlest  tones 
he  could  assume.     "  Dear  lady,  are  you  unfortunate  ?" 

"Deeply — deeply  so,  sir!"  replied  the  lady,  "but  I 
wish  to  be  left  alone  to  die  here,  I  wish  to  bo  alone  in 
my  sorrows :  leave  me  to  perish,  unknown,  unaided, 
unlamented." 

"  That  I  will  not,  by  the  ghost  of  Ivanhoe  !"  said  his 
lordship,  summoning  a  hackney  coach  from  a  neigh- 
bouring stand,  into  which  he  perforce  bundled  his 
lovely  (of  course)  burden.  Away  they  drove  to  his 
house  in  Grosvenor  Square :  she  leaned  her  head  on 
his  shoulder,  sobbing  piteously.     "  You  are  too  good, 


BLUCHER.  381 

generous  stranger !"  "  Not  a  whit,  ma'am — not  a  whit, 
ma'am  ! — I  am  not,  indeed,  ma'am  !"  said  Lord  Squan- 
der, and  a  lucid  tear  gemmed  his  eye.  "Let  me 
alight,  kind  sir !  consider  my  feelings  of  delicacy,  ha 
—a— a !" 

"  A  fiddlestick,  ma'am — I  beg  pardon,  ma'am — what 
is  fastidious  delicacy  to  the  unfortunate  ? — but  here  is 
my  house." 

The  coach  door  was  opened,  Lord  Squander  alighted 
and  received  the  lady  into  his  arms.  He  bore  her  to 
his  house,  and  conveyed  her  to  the  dining  room.  He 
summoned  light.  The  lady  was  dressed  in  a  suit  of 
elegant  mourning.  She  was  young,  handsome,  and 
had  a  full,  rich,  melancholy  eye ;  that  was  enough : 
Lord  Squander  caught  a  glimpse  of  it,  and  was  instantly 
plunged  over  head  and  ears  in  love.  Do  not  say  that 
I  outrage  nature,  kind  reader ;  you  little  know  how  in- 
flammable was  his  lordship. 

The  housekeeper  was  summoned  ;  the  lady  was 
taken  to  bed;  Dr.  Baillie  was  sent  for;  he  declared 
that  the  fair  patient  was  dying  of  a  broken  heart. 

Lord  Squander  was  near  going  beside  himself ;  he 
played  ten  thousand  mad  pranks  ;  he  raved  like  a 
bedlamite  :  five  hundred  times  a  day  he  solemnly 
called  Heaven  to  witness,  that  he  would  not  survive 
her  death  an  instant — nay,  he  bought  a  rapier,  (for  a 
romantic  nobleman  likes  to  commit  suicide  genteelly, 
not  like  the  beggarly  canaille,  with  laudanum  and  oxalic 
acid,)  and  concealed  it  in  his  clothes,  near  his  heart. 
The  same  evening  he  ordered  every  attendant  out  of 
the  room.  Then  he  kneeled  at  her  bedside  ;  he  wept 
like  an  infant ;  she  feebly  inquired  the  reason ;  he 
told  her  all  that  was  in  his  heart,  and  of  his  firm  reso- 
lution not  to  survive  her  ;  he  conjured  her  to  live  for 
his  sake. 

Amazing  to  tell,  she  recovered  her  strength  from 

that  hour.     In  a  month's  time  the  infatuated  man  led 

her  to  the  altar.     He  entertained  a  splendid  wedding 

party.     A  gambling  baronet,  of  the  name  of  Sir  Slim- 

'  q  31 


862  BLUCHER. 

purse  Shufflecard,  was  one :  and  the  moment  he  beheld 
Lady  Squander  led  into  the  chamber  where  the  guests 
sat  awaiting  dinner,  he  burst  into  a  horse  laugh,  ran 
up  to  her  staggering  ladyship,  and  boisterously  in- 
quired, "  Why,  Betty !  how  art  ?  how  art — thou  Lady 
Squander  1 — ha,  ha,  ha  !" 

"  Villain,  scoundrel !"  gasped  Lord  Squander,  white 
with  anger :  he  listened  to  what  blasted  him — the 
woman  to  whom  he  had  madly  united  his  fate  was  the 
discarded  favourite  of  the  baronet ! 

Lord  Squander  reeled  from  the  apartment  to  his 
bedchamber,  convulsively  grasped  a  pistol  which  he 
always  kept  loaded  on  his  drawers,  he  pointed  the 
murderous  weapon  to  his  forehead — discharged  its 
deadly  contents — and  there  was  an  end  of  romances 
and  Lord  Squander ! 

CHAPTER    XXXIII. 

Containing  my  remarkable  Essay  on  the  Principles  and  Practice  of 

Pugilism. 

I  was  almost  heartbroken  on  hearing  of  this  dread- 
ful catastrophe.  *The  vile  strumpet  who  had  so  shame- 
fully deceived  his  lordship,  after  submitting  to  [the 
scorn  and  derision  of  the  guests,  was  kicked  into  the 
streets.  I  fell  among  other  live  lumber,  such  as  foot- 
men, coachmen,  butlers,  stewards,  housemaids,  &c, 
&c,  &c,  into  the  hands  of  his  lordship's  heir  at  law, 
the  Honourable  Hotbrain  Cockspur. 

He  was  a  wild  fool,  whose  brains,  if  he  had  any, 
lay  in  his  belly  ;  whose  heart  lay  at  the  bottom  of  his 
purse ;  and  whose  every  hope,  wish,  and  ambition, 
centred  in  the  prize  ring  and  Fives  Court.  Then  let 
me  thunder  a  philippic  against  boxing. 

Butcher's  Essay  on  Boxing. 

j  What  is  boxing  ? — The  cherished  and  patronised  dis- 
grace of  England  !    By  whom  is  it  cherished  and  pat- 


BLTJCHER.  363 

ronized  ?— By  many  of  the  nobility  and  gentry.  And 
for  what  purpose  ! — From  an  anxious  and  laudible  de- 
sire to  brutalize  the  lower  orders  of  the  people.  Let 
me  go  a  little  at  large  into  this  important  subject,  and 
inquire, 

I.  What  are  the  principles  of  boxing  ? 

II.  By  whom  are  they  upheld  ? 

III.  How  do  they  influence  the  moral  and  national 
character  of  the  people  of  England  ? 

IV.  The  remedy. 

1.  What  are  the  principles  of  this  detestable  prac- 
tice !  Go  and  ask  P  *****  E  *  *  *  or  J  *  *  * 
B  *  *  ;  two  as  finished  scoundrels  as  ever  adorned  the 
public  annals  of  the  prize  ring.  And  what  do  they  tell 
us  of  it  ?  After  much  palaver  and  rigmarollery — and 
phiz-magiggery,  (according  to  their  polite  phraseology : 
let  the  reader  consult  John  Bee's  dictionary  of  slang 
language,  published  a  year  or  two  ago,)  they  come  to 
the  point,  and  say,  that  its  principles  are,  the  encour- 
aging of  boldness,  intrepidity,  and  honour,  among  the 
lower  orders  of  the  people.  Ay,  ay  ! — only  let  the  vil- 
lains have  their  own  way,  and  presently  their  boldness, 
intrepidity,  and  honour  shall  mould  the  people  into  as 
pretty  a  set  of  tigers  and  bulldogs  as  they  could  desire  : 
let  them  go  on,  but  let  me  remind  them,  that  it  is  not 
impossible  for  bulldogs  and  tigers  sometimes  to  turn 
upon  those  who  have  educated  them,  and  to  make  them 
their  first  prey.  I  cordially  wish  it  may  be  so  in  the 
present  case.  I  do  flatly  deny  that  pugilism  is  produc- 
tive of  real  boldness,  intrepidity,  and  honour.  It  is  the 
boldness  of  a  bully,  the  intrepidity  of  a  blackguard,  and 
the  honour  of  a  scoundrel !  It  is  a  system  of  cold- 
blooded murder,  and  a  system  of  cold-blooded  villany  ! 
the  one  cannot  exist  without  the  other,  (in  the  prin- 
ciples of  pugilism.)  The  villany  of  betting  is  the  sole 
support  of  the  mania  of  boxing — the  avowed  one.  So 
much  for  the  principles  of  boxing. 

2.  By  whom  are  the  principles  upheld?     The  fel- 
lows may  bluster  about  the  late  Mr.  Wyndham ;  and 

Q2 


364  ELUCHER. 

tell  me  what  he  was  silly  enough  to  publish  as  his 
opinion  of  pugilism,  (which  he  had  impudence  enough 
to  term  a  science,)  but  I  will  answer,  who  does  not 
know,  that  that  celebrated  political  character  was  as 
eccentric  as  he  was  great?  and  that  he  frequently  per- 
formed as  many  absurd  as  wise  actions,  both  in  his 
public  and  private  life  ?  and  I  fearlessly  class  his 
sanction  of  pugilism  as  one  of  the  most  absurd  of  his  ab- 
surd deeds  !  the  wild  aberration  of  a  clever  statesman 
when  jaded  and  irritated  by  unsuccessful  legislation ! 
His  name  has  gone  far  to  support  pugilism  :  and  there 
are  thousands  of  rich  fools  who  never  go  beyond  a 
name,  and  are  unable  to  reason  on  any  subject :  they 
take  it  for  granted,  that  what  Mr.  Wyndham  has  sanc- 
tioned, must  surely  be  worth  their  sanction.  But  look 
at  the  character  of  the  sprigs  of  nobility  and  the  young 
gentry  who  are  most  forward  in  advocating  and  sup- 
porting this  abominable  system.  Are  they  not  invari- 
ably the  wildest  and  most  dissipated  to  be  found  in  the 
higher  ranks  of  life  1  are  they  not  shunned  by  the 
wise  and  good  of  their  own  sphere?  and  consequently, 
on  Satan's  well-known  principle,  "  better  to  reign  in 
hell  than  serve  in  heaven,"  they  prefer  figuring  away 
in  scenes  of  villany  and  dissipation  among  their  inferi- 
ors by  rank,  but  equals  by  nature  and  pursuits  !  What 
pugilistic  noble  ever  shone  as  a  statesman,  as  a  scholar, 
or  a  warrior?  and  what  pugilistic  gentleman  ever  dis- 
tinguished himself  in  these  capacities  ?  So  much  for 
those  who  uphold  the  principles  of  pugilism ! 

3.  How  do  they  influence  the  moral  and  rational 
character  of  the  people  of  England  I  This  is  not  a 
difficult  question.  Thurtell,  that  great  man,  Thurtrtl 
was  &  pugilist !  see  what  pugilism  did  for  him !  It  taught 
him  how  to  murder  his  friend  in  the  most  approved 
method,  both  as  it  regards  mercy  and  despatch.  Oh ! 
he  was  a  star,  a  blazing  star,  on  the  rich  coronet  of 
pugilism  !  Why  need  I  instance  others  of  this  illus- 
trious fraternity  ?  why  need  I  drag  forth  C  *  *  *  *, 
g  *  •  •  *  *   s  *  *  *  *  #  *  •   w  *  *  *3  H  *  *  *  »  •  cum  muh 


BLUCHER.  365 

tis  aliis,  from  their  lurking  holes.  The  creatures  love 
darkness  ;  therefore  I  will  not  disgust  the  public  by  a 
further  and  unnecessary  exposure  of  these  miserable 
wretches.  But  this  is  not  answering  the  third  ques- 
tion. Pugilism  essentially  degrades  and  brutalizes  the 
national  taste  ;  it  teaches  the  people  to  value  most  that 
man  who  is  the  greatest  proficient  in  the  cold-blooded 
butchery  of  his  fellow-creatures  ;  and  that  their  highest 
ambition  ought  to  be,  how  to  shine  in  the  characters 
of  a  giver  or  receiver  of  punishment ;  it  absorbs  all 
their  hopes,  all  their  time,  all  their  money,  and  conse- 
quently reduces  their  families  to  beggary  and  starv- 
ation. How  can  pugilism,  and  the  practice  of  the 
milder  duties  of  humanity,  not  to  mention  Christianity, 
(which  is  the  standard  to  which  every  scheme  for 
popular  adoption  ought  to  be  brought,)  be  for  an  in- 
stant co-existent  1  How  can  gambling,  the  blackest 
gambling,  and  morality,  exist  together  ?  But  I  have  not 
time  to  enlarge  :  common  sense  can  tell  every  think- 
ing man  how  pugilism  operates  on  the  public  taste. 

4.  The  remedy.  1.  Only  let  the  real  principles  of 
pugilism  be  exposed  to  public  scrutiny,  stripped  of  all 
tinsel  and  disguise,  and  men  will  flee  from  them  as 
from  a  serpent.  They  will  behold  them  as  utterly 
subversive  of  all  true  honour,  morality,  and  respecta- 
bility of  character,  and  wonder  that  they  could  have 
so  long  submitted  to  their  influence.  2.  Let  the  noble 
and  the  rich  withdraw  from  them  their  ill-bestowed  pat- 
ronage. Heaven  forbid,  that  for  the  future  the  name  of  a 
nobleman  of  England,  and  the  vermin  of  the  prize  ring, 
should  ever  be  associated  together  by  the  public  voice ; 
let  them  respect  their  own  characters  ;  and  regard 
their  influence  upon  society  at  large.  But  I  need  not 
add  more.  The  people  of  England  are  already  open- 
ing their  eyes  to  this  system  of  deception  ;  their  wishes 
and  pursuits  are  growing  more  elevated ;  they  seek 
for  intellectual  improvement ;  and  when  that  taste  is 
cultivated,  we  shall  see  the  downfall  of  pugilism.  In- 
deed, I  rejoice  to   see  that  it  is  losing  ground  every 

31* 


366  BLTJCHER. 

day ;  may  it  soon  be  annihilated  altogether  !     I  have 
done. 

Thus  far  poor  Blucher  had  recorded  his  memoirs. 
But  it  falls  to  the  lot  of  the  editor' of  these  pages  to 
say,  that  soon  after  he  had  penned  the  previous  essay 
on  pugilism,  Mr.  Cockspur  shot  him  through  the  head, 
for  attempting  to  separate  two  prize  fighters,  at  Moulsey 
Hurst,  who  seemed  bent  on  doing  deadly  injury  to  each 
other.  Poor  fellow  !  if  ever  there  breathed  a  dog  of  gen- 
erous heart,  and  a  clever  head,  it  was  Blucher.  He  has 
drawn  several  rather  interesting  pictures  of  the  vari- 
ous scenes  of  life  through  which  he  passed ;  and  let 
us  be  charitable  enough  to  grant,  that  his  object  was 
not  merely  to  contribute  to  the  amusement  of  his  read- 
ers, but  to  instruct  them,  in  an  easy,  rhapsodical,  and 
popular  style.  With  this  concession,  his  ghost  (if  in- 
deed he  has  a  ghost)  will  be  satisfied;  and  to  his  body 
we  may  all  say,  "  Kequicscat  in  pace" 

From  the  Author  to  the  Reader. 

Kind  reader,  it  is  now  time  for  me  to  drop  the 
mask,  and,  assuming  my  own  character,  thank  thee 
for  the  patient  and  persevering  attention  which  thou 
hast  bestowed  on  this  protracted  canine  biography  ;  it 
will  be  evident  to  thee,  that,  from  beginning  to  end,  it 
is  alight  satire  on  various  scenes  of  human  life,  where- 
in I  may  have  held  up  the  foibles  of  mankind  to  ridi- 
cule, but  never  their  virtues.  I  maybe  accused  of  oc- 
casional coarseness,  and  trifling ;  and  I  may  perhaps 
be  justly  accused.  But  let  my  readers  remember  the 
nature  of  the  piece  for  which  I  have  written;  and  that 
it  is  chiefly  calculated  for  the  juvenile  branches  of 
the  community,  to  whom  I  now  bid  a  long — long  adieu, 
and  inform  them,  that  they  will  ever  find  a  well  wisher 
in — 

*   #   # 

THE    END. 


INTERESTING    WORKS 


PUBLISHED   BY 


HARPER    &    BROTHERS, 


In  3  vols.  18mo.,  with  Engravings,  Maps,  &c, 
THE  HISTORY   OF   THE  JEWS, 
From  the  earliest  Period  to  the  Present  Time- 
By  the  Rev.  H.  H.  MILMAN. 


In  2  vols.  ISmo.,  with  Portraits, 

THE    LIFE   OF    NAPOLEON   BONAPARTE. 
By  J.  G.  LOCKHART,  Esq. 


In  one  vol.  18mo.,  with  a  Portrait, 
By  ROBERT  SOUTHEY,  LL.D. 


In  one  vol.  18mo.,  with  a  Map, 
THE     LIFE     AND     ACTIONS     OF 

By  Rev.  J.  WILLIAMS. 


In  2  vols.  18mo.t  with  numerous  Engravings, 

THE  NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  INSECTS. 


Interesting  Works 
In  one  vol.  18mo., 

By  JOHN  GALT. 


In  one  vol.  18mo.,  with  Engravings, 

Founder  of  the  Religion  of  Islam,  and  of  the  Empire  o 
the  Saracens. 

By  Rev.  GEORGE  BUSH. 


In  one  vol.  18mo.,  with  an  Engraving 

LETTERS  ON  DEM0N0L0GY  AND   WITCHCRAFT. 

By  Sir  WALTER  SCOTT,  Bart. 


In  2  vols.  18mo.,  with  a  Map, 
By  the  Rev.  G.  R.  GLEIG. 


In  one  vol.  18mo.,  with  Maps,  &c. 

NARRATIVE  OF    DISCOVERY  AND  ADVENTURE  IN 

tjje  $olar  Seas  arm  jkeflions. 

With  Illustrations  of  their  Climate,  Geology,  and 

Natural  History,  and  an  Account  of  the 

Whale-Fishery. 

By  Professors  LESLIE  and  JAMESON,  and 
HUGH  MURRAY,  Esq. 


In  one  vol.  18mo., 

THE     LIFE     AND     TIMES     OF 

GEORGE  THE  FOURTH. 

With  Anecdotes  of  Distinguished  Persons  of  the  last 

Fifty  years. 

By  Rev.  GEORGE  CROLY. 


Published  by  Harper  tf-  Brothers. 

In  one  voL  18mo.,  with  a  Map  and  Engravings, 

NARRATIVE  OF   DISCOVERY  AND  ADVENTURE  IN  AFRICA. 

From  the  Earliest  Ages  to  the  Present  Time 

With  Illustrations  of  its  Geology,  Mineralogy,  and 
Zoology. 

By  Professor  JAMESON,  and  JAMES  WILSON  and 
HUGH  MURRAY,  Esqrs. 


In  5  vols.  18mo.,  with  Portraits, 
LIVES    OF    THE    MOST    EMINENT 

By  ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM,  Esq. 


In  one  vol.  18mo.,  with  Engravings, 

HISTORY  OF  CHIVALRY  AND  THE  CRUSADES. 
By  G.  P.  R.JAMES,  Esq. 


In  2  vols.  18mo.,  with  a  Portrait, 

EaSEM    ©W    Sa^cE^    ©WOMBS'    ©IP    g©®^ 
By  HENRY  GLASSFORD  BELL,  Esq. 


In  one  vol.  18mo.,  with  a  Map  and  Engravings, 
A    V I E  W     OF 

With  an  Outline  of  its  Natural  History. 
By  the  Rev.  M.  RUSSELL,  LL.D. 


In  one  vol.  18mo.,  with  a  Portrait, 

From  the  Earliest  Period  to  the  Present  Time. 
By  JAMES  FLETCHER,  Esq. 


Interesting  Works 

In  2  vols.  18mo.,  with  a  Map  and  Engravings, 

PALESTINE,  OR  THE  HOLY  LAND. 

From  the  Earliest  Period  to  the  Present  Time 

By  the  Rev.  M.  RUSSELL,  LL.D. 


In  one  vol.  18mo.,  with  Engravings, 
LIFE     OF     SIR     ISAAC     STEWTON. 

By  Sir  DAVID  BREWSTER,  K.B.,  LL.D.,  FJt.S. 


In  one  vol.  18mo., 

Ancient  and  Modern. 

By  HORATIO  SMITH,  Esq. 

With  Additions,  by  SAMUEL  WOODWORTH,  Esq.,  of  New-York. 


In  one  vol.  18mo.,  with  Portraits, 
MEMOIRS  OF  THE 

By  JOHN  S.  MEMES,  LL.D. 


In  one  vol.  18mo.,  with  Portraits, 

LIVES  AND  VOYAGES  OF 

DRAKE,    CAVENDISH,    AND    DAMPIER; 

Including  an  Introductory  View  of  the  Earlier  Discov 

eries  in  the  South  Sea,  and  the  History 

of  the  Bucaniers. 


In  one  vol.  18mo.,  with  Engravings, 

A.  DESCRIPTION  OF  PITCAIRN'S  ISLAND, 

AND  ITS  INHABITANTS. 

With  an  Authentic  Account  of  the  Mutiny  of  the  Ship 

Bounty,  and  of  the  subsequent  Fortunes  of 

the  Mutineers. 

By  J.  BARROW,  Esq. 


Published  by  Harper  if-  Brothers. 

In  one  vol.  18mo.,  with  a  Portrait, 

C&e  Court  arts  Camp   of  33onajiarte. 


In  2  vols.  18mo., 

Sacreo  2$istor»  of  tlje  ££forU», 

as  displayed  in  tne  Creation  and  Subsequent  Events 
to  the  Deluge. 

Attempted  to  be  Philosophically  considered  in  a 
Series  of  Letters  to  a  Son. 

By  SHARON    TURNER,  F.S.A. 


In  2  vols.  ISmo., 
MEMOIRS   OF 

By  Mrs.  JAMESON. 


In  one  vol.  18mo.,  with  Portraits,  Maps,  &c, 

JOURNAL  OF  AN  EXPEDITION*  TO  EXPLORE 

THE  COURSE  AND  TERMINATION  OF  THE  NIGER. 

"With  a  Narrative  of  a  Voyage  down  that  River 
to  its  Termination. 

By  RICHARD  and  JOHN  LANDER. 


In  one  vol.  18mo., 

INQUIRIES  CONCERNING  THE   INTELLECTUAL  POWERS, 

anH  tj>e  3-nbestfflation  of  <Tpitfi. 

By  JOHN  ABERCROMBIE,  M.D.,  F.R.S. 

With  Questions. 


In  3  vols.  18mo., 
By  JAMES  AUGUSTUS  ST.  JOHN. 


Interesting    Worla 
In  2  vols.  18mo.,  with  a  Portrait, 

LIFE     OF    FREDERIC    THESECOND, 

King  of  Prussia. 

By    LORD    DOVER. 


In  2  vols.  18mo.,  with  Engravings, 
By  the  Rev.  E.  SMEDLEY,  M.A. 


In  2  vols.  18mo., 

or,  an  Historical  Account  of  those  individuals  who  have 
been  distinguished  among  the  North  American 
Natives  as  Orators,  Warriors,  States- 
men, and  other  Remarkable 
Characters. 

By  B.  B.  THATCHER,  Esq. 


In  3  vols.  18mo.,  with  a  Map  and  Engravings, 
HISTORICAL  AND  DESCRIPTIVE  ACCOUNT  OF 

From  the  most  remote  Period  to  the  Present  Time. 
Including  a  Narrative  of  the  early  Portuguese  and  Eng- 
lish Voyages,  the  Revolutions  in  the  Mogul  Empire, 
and  the  Origin,  Progress,  and   Establishment 
of  the  British  Power;  with  Illustrations 
of    the    Botany,    Zoology,    Climate, 
Geology,   and    Mineralogy. 

By  HUGH  MURRAY,  Esq.,  JAMES  WILSON,   Esq..   R.  K. 

GREVILLE,    LL.D.,    WHITELAW    AINSLIE,  M.D., 

WILLIAM  RHIND,  Esq.,  Professor  JAMESON, 

Profeasor  WALLACE,  and  Captain 

CLARENCE  DALRYMPLE. 


Published  by  Ijhurpar  cf  Brctkers. 
In  one  vol.  18mo.,  with  Engravings, 

Addressed  to  Sir  Walter  Scott. 
By  Dr.  BREWSTER. 


In  2  vols.  18mo.,  with  Engravings, 

From  the  Anglo-Norman  Invasion  till  the  Union  of  the 

Country  with  Great  Britain. 

By  W.  C.  TAYLOR,  Esq. 

With  Additions,  by  WILLIAM  SAMPSON,  Esq. 


In  one  vol.  18mo.,  with  a  Map  and  Engravings, 

HISTORICAL  VIEW  OF  THE  PROGRESS  OF 

DISCOVERY  ON  THE  NORTHERN    COASTS  OF 

NORTH  AMERICA. 

From  the  Earliest  Period  to  the  Present  Time. 

By  P.  F.  TYTLER,  Esq. 

With  Descriptive  Sketches  of  the  Natural  History  of 

the  North  American  Regions. 

By  Professor  WILSON. 


In  one  vol.  19mo.,  with  Engravings, 

THE  TRAVELS  AND  RESEARCHES  OF 

ALEXANDER   VON   HUMBOLDT; 

being  a  condensed   Narrative  of  his  Journeys  in  the 

Equinoctial  Regions  of  America,  and  in  Asiatic 

Russia :  together  with  Analyses  of  his 

more  important  Investigations. 

By  W.  MACGILLIVRAY.  A.M. 


9"       ;..  '  Interesting  Works 

In  2  vols.  18mo.,  with  numerous  Engravings, 

UgMWJSBia    ©IF    HWILHEi 

ON    DIFFERENT    SUBJECTS    OF    NATURAL 
PHILOSOPHY. 

Addressed  to  a  German  Princess. 

Translated  by  HUNTER. 

With  Notes,  and  a  Life  of  Euler,  by  Sir  DAVID  BREWSTER ; 

and  Additional  Notes,  by  JOHN  GRISCOM,  LL.D. 

With  a  Glossary  of  Scientific  Terms. 


In  one  vol.  18mo.,  with  Engravings, 

A  POPULAR  GUIDE  TO 

TC1B    ®S©SB^Ac0,a®Kl    ®F    KIATUDBS  g 

or,  Hints  of  Inducement  to  the  Study  of  Natural  Pro- 
ductions and  Appearances,  in  their  Con- 
nexions  and   Relations. 
By  ROBERT  MUDIE. 


In  one  vol.  18mo., 

THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    THE    MORAL    FEELINGS. 

By  JOHN  ABERCROMBIE,  M.D.,  F.R.S. 

With  Questions. 


In  one  vol.  18mo.,  with  Engravings, 

ON  THE  IMPROVEMENT  OF  SOCIETY 
BY    THE    DIFFUSION    OF    KNOWLEDGE. 

By  THOMAS  DICK,  LL.D. 


In  one  vol.  18mo.,  with  a  Portrait, 

IHIIS'iFOIsnr  ©I?  03L^SHLESfi^®S^go 

To  which  is  prefixed  an  Introduction,  comprising  the 

History  of  France  from  the  Earliest  Period 

to    the    Birth    of   Charlemagne. 

By  G.  P.  R.  JAMES,  Esq. 


Published  by  Harper  <$■  Brother*.  $ 

In  one  vol.  18mo.,  with  a  Map  and  Engravings, 

WiSOA  AMD  A3Y©@:iNaAa 

Comprehending  their  Civil  History,  Antiquities,  Arts, 

Religion,  Literature,  and  Natural  History. 

By  the  Rev.  M.  RUSSELL,  LL.D. 


In  2  vols.  18mo.,  with  a  Portrait, 
By  the  Rev.  M.  RUSSELL,  LL.D. 


In  one  vol.  18mo., 

LECTURES  ON  GENERAL  LITERATURE, 
POETRY,  &c. 

Delivered  at  the  Royal  Institute  in  1830  and  1831. 
By  JAMES  MONTGOMERY. 


In  one  vol.  18mo.,  with  a  Portrait, 

MEMOIR    OF 

THE  LIFE  OF  PETER  THE  GREAT. 

By  JOHN  BARROW,  Esq. 


In  one  vol.  18mo.,  with  a  Map  and  Engravings, 
HISTORICAL  AND  DESCRIPTIVE  ACCOUNT  OF 

ip  m  a  ©  a  &* 

From  the  Earliest  Period  to  the  Present  Time. 

With  a  Detailed  View  of  its  Resources,  Government, 
Population,  Natural  History,  and  the  Character 
of  its  Inhabitants,  particularly  of  the 
Wandering  Tribes :  including 
a  Description  of  Af- 
ghanistan. 

By  JAMES  B.  FRASER,  Esq. 


it)  Interesting    Works 

In  2  vols.  l8mo.,  with  a  Map  and  Engravings, 

THE    HilS'TOlaV    ®F    ABA®0Aa 

Ancient  and  Modern. 

Containing  a  Description  of  the  Country — An  Account 
of  its   Inhabitants,   Antiquities,  Political    Condition, 
and  Early  Commerce — The  Life  and  Religion  of 
Mohammed — The   Conquests,  Arts,  and  Litera- 
ture of  the  Saracens — The  Caliphs  of  Damas- 
cus, Bagdad,  Africa,  and   Spain — The  Civil 
Government  and  Religious  Ceremonies  of 
the  Modern  Arabs — Origin  and  Suppres- 
sion   of   the   Wahabees — The    Insti- 
tutions,   Character,    Manners,    and 
Customs   of  the   Bedouins ;    and 
a    Comprehensive    View    of 
its     Natural     History. 

By  ANDREW  CRICHTON. 


In  one  vol.  18mo., 

THE   PRINCIPLES  OF   PHYSIOLOGY, 

APPLIED  TO  THE  PRESERVATION  OF  HEALTH, 

AND  TO  THE  IMPROVEMENT  OF 

PHYSICAL  AND  MENTAL 

EDUCATION. 

By  ANDREW  COMBE,  M.D. 


In  one  vol.  18mo.,  with  Engravings, 

HISTORY  AND   PRESENT   CONDITION  OF 

SPUES  E^miE^m"^  ©IP.&'iFISSo 
Comprehending  a  View  of  their  Civil  Institutions,  An- 
tiquities, Arts,  Religion,  Literature,  Commerce, 
Agriculture,  and  Natural  Productions. 
By  the  Rev.  M.  RUSSELL,  LL.D. 


